


I've Got a Rock n' Roll Life

by osaki_nana_707



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 83,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osaki_nana_707/pseuds/osaki_nana_707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Track One: Sweet Emotion

Track One: Sweet Emotion

"It'll be fun!"

That was what Ariadne had said, the gall of her, when standing in the middle of his off-campus apartment living room with a pair of tickets in her hand. He had given her a skeptical look that was borderline agitated, adjusting the tuning peg on the E string of his violin, and scoffed.

"If by 'fun' you mean 'a horrendous nightmare that I would most definitely not have a good time at', then yes," Arthur replied flatly, pressing the chinrest between his left shoulder and jaw, running his bow along the strings to test the tuning. It was _perfect_.

"—but Arthur—"

"Besides, I've got a rehearsal for the recital at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. You really think I'd be interested in standing in a crowd of smelly, long haired idiots who wear their sunglasses all the time and spill beer all over everyone? I have to practice."

As if to emphasize his point, he began to play Bach's _Partita no. 1 in B minor_ , one of the pieces he would be playing in said recital.

"You don't think I have class in the morning? Arthur, I swear to God, you don't even know the meaning of the word _fun_."

"I also don't believe in God, so your swearing is meaningless," he replied blithely, starting to lose himself in the music.

"…but we haven't done anything together all semester," Ariadne pouted. "Are you trying to shove me out of your life just like you do everyone else?"

"I'm never _trying_ to shove anyone out of my life, Ariadne," Arthur said, eyes fluttering closed. "People don't understand how I work, and sometimes it gets on people's nerves when I desert them in favor of my music, but the fact of the matter is my music has never given me any reason to abandon it. I cannot say that about anyone else, except for you… though you're pushing it right now."

"I'm inviting you out for a little fun. It won't be like last time at Starkey's when that guy threw up on you during karaoke night, I swear."

"You can't promise that," Arthur said, mouth curving into a frown as he delicately continued the piece unperturbed. He had a feeling that playing so magnificently was only going to fuel Ariadne into claiming he didn't need to practice. He actually thought for a moment about missing a note purposely just so he could make a point, but he couldn't do that to his precious violin, not after it had served him so well for so many years.

" _Please_ , Arthur? All of my other friends said they couldn't go. Alisha said that she had some kind of anniversary thing with her boyfriend, and Janet's going home to the family, and Mia is heading out on a trip."

"So? Take one of your guy friends," Arthur replied carelessly.

"That's what I'm trying to do, Arthur."

"You can't take Tony or Jake or Henry?"

" _No_ , because they all are quite heterosexual, and if I took any one of them they'd get the idea that it was a date, and then I would lose another friend because I'm not interested in any of them."

"What makes you believe that _I_ wouldn't come to that conclusion, I wonder?" Arthur asked, and he could tell by the way her shoulders were tensing up in his peripheral vision that she was getting agitated that he never even bothered to stop playing while she was talking.

"Um… because you don't like _anyone_ ," she replied, voice taking on the expected annoyed undertone. "I'm your only friend. I'm just trying to make sure you have a life before you get too caught up in this 'tortured artist' state of mind and slit your wrists in the bathtub to the tunes of Mozart's _Lacrymosa_ and sprawl yourself out dramatically in the hopes someone from the photography club will find you."

"That doesn't sound like me at all," Arthur huffed. "Stop trying to make me into some melodramatic imbecile."

"That's true… you're not melodramatic because you're a completely unfeeling asshole."

When he didn't dignify her with a response, she started to whine.

" _Arthur_ … come on! I won these tickets off the radio after a big effort, and they're front row tickets, and Radical Notion is my absolute _favorite_ band of all time, and I don't want to go by myself because I'm tiny and vulnerable."

Arthur paused in his playing at last to give her a onceover with his eyes. He knew she was playing an angle, but it wasn't exactly a lie that she was tiny. Standing at barely five feet, she would likely be a favorite target of the creepers and thugs that liked to go to the godforsaken things that concerts were. Arthur was almost six feet tall and, while he wasn't exactly a tough looking guy, he had a daily workout regimen that he completed every morning, and he was toned with wiry muscle and enough venom in his words to bring down a linebacker (and that wasn't just speculation on his part—he'd proved it on a couple of occasions).

"So… you're asking me to come with you for protection?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Ariadne said, nodding. "I'll be eternally grateful."

"Is that all I get? Eternal gratefulness?"

"I'll buy you a t-shirt."

"Why would I want a t-shirt?"

"I'll take you out to dinner before the show. Your favorite place."

Arthur sighed, setting his violin down in the box before settling his hands on his knees. "You'd better."

…and that was how it happened.

That was how Ariadne had convinced him to go with her. She'd seduced him with innocence and then bribed him with food, the shameless harpy. He barely ate enough as it was, and she had used it against him.

Arthur still brought his violin with him, settling it in the backseat floorboard and practicing on it in the car while they waited for the stadium to open its doors and allow all of Radical Notion's fans (and Arthur) inside. He secretly hoped that one of their band members would throw a chair out of a hotel window or something and the police would arrest them and the show would get cancelled and Arthur would have gotten his delicious Italian (damn the carbs) for free. Rock stars did stuff like that, right?

"Put it _away_ , Arthur, or I'll break it over my knee. Tonight is _not_ a night for classical music," Ariadne complained, opening her car door.

"If you did that I would have to stab you to death with the pieces," Arthur responded dully, as if he was talking about going to the grocery store, but put it back in its case all the same.

"This is a night of rock n' roll, man!" Ariadne said excitedly, as if she hadn't made that abundantly clear by the tall shoes she'd worn and the way she'd done her make-up (he had refrained from telling her that the red lipstick and heavy eyeshadow made her look a little whorish—and she thought he wasn't nice).

"I said I'd come with you," Arthur replied, crawling out of the backseat and smoothing back his slicked back hair. She'd convinced him to wear jeans and a t-shirt (the only one of each that he owned) by reminding him that he wouldn't want to ruin any of his nice clothes, but he wasn't about to show up with his hair loose looking like a hooligan. He hadn't worn his hair down since he was twelve. "I'm not required to enjoy myself. Let's just go and get this _over_ with."

"I bet you'll have a better time than you expect," Ariadne said confidently, dragging him by the wrist towards the stadium. "The music and the attitude of the crowd is really infectious."

"Oh, no doubt," Arthur said sarcastically. "By the time we leave, I'm sure I'll be both deaf and lack the IQ to tie my shoelaces."

"I do believe if we weren't neighbors as children, we wouldn't be friends," Ariadne said, glaring and pouting at him. He would not be fazed by that look, no matter how good she'd gotten at it.

He still let her lead him inside and up to the line (line? It was more like a giant, chaotic bustling of people) for merchandise, what Ariadne referred to as 'schwag'. She bought a t-shirt with all of the band members on it, a poster, and the special-live-studio-rare-only-at-the-concert CD. She put on the shirt and shoved the rest of it into her gigantic purse that Arthur thought screamed 'hey, come steal from me! Look at all the stuff I've got!' but… well, maybe that was just him. He never did understand girls, and while Ariadne wasn't typical, she still had tendencies.

Excitement was thrumming through her as she bolted down the steps, Arthur following despondently behind. The opening act hadn't even come on stage yet, and already he wanted to go home. The floor stuck to his shoes unpleasantly, and people were screaming needlessly, and—oh, God, was that girl not wearing a shirt? How did she get in without a—Oh, there's her shirt—how can her boyfriend not be bothered by th—oh, they're both her boyfriends—

Arthur shivered and hurried to catch up with Ariadne. Suddenly he felt like he needed _her_ for protection rather than the other way around.

"Okay," she said, turning as soon as he found his spot next to her (he was disappointed to see that he'd be forced to _stand_ and listen to this shit for the next few hours because there were no chairs), "since you know _nothing_ , I'm going to give you the 'Radical Notion Crash Course', all right?"

"Ariadne, I don't—"

"Okay," she continued, clearly not taking no for an answer (she seldom did). She pointed to each band member on her shirt and started to explain, and Arthur could have ignored it but then he would have been forced to listen to all of the disorder going on around him. "We've got Yusuf here, he's the drummer. He owns a twelve-foot python and used to have a drug problem when he was a teenager—not doing them, but he used to make them. This guy here is Nash, and he's the bassist. He's kind of an asshole and got arrested last year for public misconduct and drinking in public, and they had to have someone else play for him that night. Ah, this guy here, this is Eames. That's his last name. He doesn't like to go by his first name I guess… um, he is a fucking _sick_ guitar player, so cool, and he's British too, so he's even cooler. Oh, and this is Dominic Cobb, the lead singer and super hottie."

"Cobb? Isn't that the same name as our French teacher?" It was one of the few classes he had with Ariadne.

"Yeah, so?" Ariadne asked, blinking, and he realized that he had not succeeded in derailing the conversation.

Arthur shrugged, sighing. "Go on."

"Okay, so like—Dom's got this really cool gravelly voice, and he and Eames write all the songs. He's got this one song that he apparently wrote for a former lover, at least according to interviews, that makes me fucking _cry_ like a baby. I just get emotional when I listen to it, you know? He sounds so sincere, I guess."

Arthur wasn't sure why she found this information at all necessary, but he did keep it in mind in case she intended to test him on it later. "I do hope you know I'm going to need to be gloriously drunk to even _attempt_ to enjoy this garbage," he said in annoyance.

"Beer. Got it."

By the time the opening act had come on, Arthur had already had three nasty beers and was downing them as fast as he could. The opening act was annoying as fuck, wailing their guitars for far longer than necessary, and the singer seemed to think that screaming and singing were the same thing. Ariadne and the rest of the crowd were cheering and yelling like they couldn't hear how stupid it was. There was nothing but relief for him when it was over, even if he was already well on his way to being wasted.

He feared that alcohol couldn't even make this experience painless.

…and then, there was the loud strum of a chord on the guitar, the battering of drums, the thrumming of a bass line… the stage filled with smoke, and the lights swept out over the audience…

…and the crowd went nuts.

Radical Notion took the stage, lit up like fucking _Gods_ , and all Arthur could do was stare. He'd heard some of their music (regrettably) in the car ride to the stadium, but it had been turned down low at his request, and he hadn't really been paying attention to it. Now, he didn't really have a choice because it was loud, it was everywhere, it was powerful.

The crowd behind him began to move, jumping up and down to the beat, and Arthur thought that perhaps they were moving the entire world with the strength of their stomps. It was mildly frightening—

Then, someone stepped onto the stage in his direct line of vision.

It was the lead guitarist (Eames, wasn't it?), in a pair of leather boots, a pair of leather pants with a fucking lace-up crotch, and… well, that was it. He was offensive to everything Arthur believed in with his tattoos and barrel chest covered in hair and full lips pressed together as his fingers danced along the fret board of his guitar, the other hand expertly picking out the notes and chords, and…

Arthur had never been so _entranced_ in his life.

The first song ended before Arthur was aware of it, and the crowd erupted into insane applause and cheering. Arthur didn't do anything but stand there. Ariadne had seemed to have found someone to scream 'Oh, my God!' at in the girl next to her with the dyed black hair.

"How are you guys feeling tonight?" Cobb asked, causing the eruption to get impossibly louder.

Arthur stared, jaw set, fists clenched at his side, and then he realized that he wasn't the only one staring.

Was the guitarist looking at him?

No, he couldn't be.

The second song started, just as loud and full of energy as the first one, and even Arthur had to admit that their melodies were much more infectious than the horrible opening act. He had to admit that Cobb actually had a pretty good voice (even though he clearly lacked any sort of classical training)… and even though he hated admitting it, he had to admit that the guitar player was charismatic—he had to have been, because Arthur couldn't stop staring at him no matter how hard he tried. With the fiery blasts coming from each side of the stage and the hot lights burning down on them, they had all broken into sweats by song three, and Eames shamelessly flaunted it around the stage, lifting his pick into the air as if it was a gift from heaven, showing off his disgusting yet surprisingly intriguing underarm hair. Arthur trimmed every hair on his body and had forgotten what it looked like when people didn't.

Song four, the lights lowered and turned blue, and Eames put down his electric in favor of an acoustic, and he'd barely gotten out the first few chords before Ariadne was theatrically sobbing. The whole crowd subdued themselves, falling nearly silent (besides the occasional 'woo!' or something like that) just to listen…

Arthur's heart thrummed, and his skin started to feel tingly, and he realized that he had stopped breathing. While surely everyone was watching as Cobb poured his heart and soul out to the microphone, Arthur still found himself watching Eames as he did the same to his guitar. He'd never in his life seen someone play quite like Eames did. He'd never seen someone _look_ that way while playing, as if every strum was hitting him straight at his core, like the guitar was not an instrument but more an extension of himself. Arthur had never felt so amazed while watching someone else play.

He'd also never felt so awful about his own playing in his entire life.

He downed the rest of his seventh beer and wished he wasn't there, and he still didn't applaud when the song was over.

* * *

By the time the concert was over, Arthur was mentally and emotionally drained and feeling more drunk than he ever had in his entire life, but Ariadne was refusing to leave until she got her poster signed.

"Then let me go home," he'd whined because she clearly had a friend in Michelle, the girl with the dyed hair, that could drive her home.

"You are too drunk to drive," she scolded, and he was beginning to regret that he'd drank so much while she'd stayed sober.

"Fine, then I'll walk," Arthur complained. "Give me the keys so I can get my violin."

"Don't bother, the door's unlocked," she replied lightly. "Plus, if I give you the keys you'll try to drive anyway because you think you can do anything if you set your mind to it."

"Wh—" Arthur was not too drunk to just let that go. "You left the door _unlocked_? Are you out of your fucking _mind_?"

"What?" Ariadne asked, shrugging. "No one's going to steal my piece of shit car."

"My violin is in there," Arthur explained. He couldn't believe she'd been so careless. Was she not aware of how valuable those things were? How much that violin meant to him?

"I told you not to bring it," Ariadne said (the bitch). "Besides, nobody _here_ is going to want your violin, trust me."

He huffed and attempted to storm off, but failed rather epically when he stumbled and had to grab hold of the nearest person to keep from falling on his ass. He didn't look back at the crowd gathered around the stage door, even though he was sure Ariadne was laughing at him.

By the time he got to the parking lot, he'd stumbled about eleven times, and he'd come to the conclusion that walking home was probably not an option. He didn't even remember how to get there, honestly, the road looking completely different at night and under the influence of alcohol. Regretfully, he decided to grab his violin and go back to Ariadne and just hope she'd let him live it down since he didn't _have_ to come with her to the damned thing…

…but as he walked the parking lot, he discovered he had another problem.

He couldn't remember whether the stage door was on the right side or the left side.

Also, he was going to be sick.

He chose the right simply because it was closest and found he could keep his footing a lot better when he was in a desperate run, hightailing it across the parking lot and inside a partially cracked open chain-link gate that had apparently been damaged so it couldn't close all the way (had that been there before?) before stumbling to a stop in front of a trashcan to vomit loudly inside it, followed by a death moan.

This whole thing was a big mistake, he knew it. A concert violinist, a _prodigy_ like himself should most definitely never find himself puking Italian and overpriced beer into a trashcan after a ridiculous rock and roll concert. If his father knew about this—well, if his father knew, he'd be a whole new level of screwed.

"Whoa—fuck—I— _fuck_ —Oh… you're by yourself."

Arthur looked up over the rim of the trashcan to blearily see a man standing in a doorway with a cigarette clutched between his thumb and first two fingers. Arthur didn't get a good look at him before he was heaving again.

"Oh, fuck, you're really sick, aren't you," the man said, and Arthur picked up a distinct accent over the sounds of his retching. A moment later, he felt a hot hand press between his shoulder blades, and it reminded him of the gentle touches his nanny Gloria would give him as a child when he was ill. "Hey, hey, you okay?"

Arthur lifted his head from the rim again, taking in a shaky breath, and he could only hope that he was done. A couple of seconds passed without the urge to puke, and he relaxed a little.

"I didn't expect anyone to be back here, being that it is staff only and all, but it looks like they left the gate open or something... You haven't texted your friends about it yet, have you?"

Arthur turned to look at the man who'd come to his aid, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist and… "It—It's you," he said, stunned.

It was the guitarist. Eames.

The guitarist.

Eames, the lead guitarist of Radical Notion was right next to him with his hand on his back, still in his leather pants and boots and nothing else.

 _Haha, suck it, Ariadne_ , Arthur thought for a moment. It was karma for her leaving his precious violin in an unlocked car.

"A big fan, eh?" Eames asked with a smirk, and Arthur remembered that he wasn't supposed to be excited about such a thing—and he wasn't excited at all.

"Not particularly, no. I was forced to come here," Arthur said as haughtily as possible, but the effect was somewhat dulled by the fact that his words were still smearing together.

"That doesn't surprise me," Eames chuckled, unfazed, helping Arthur to his feet by one arm. "I mean, you were _glaring_ at me for the entire performance. It was quite unsettling."

So, he _had_ been looking at Arthur. He hadn't imagined it after all.

Still, "No, I wasn't."

Eames chuckled, amused. "Ah… yeah, you were. I saw you. You stared me down for the whole show. I could have been blind and known you were doing it, you were staring so intensely." He put the cigarette between his lips and lit it, and then he looked up at Arthur with a smirk and said, "My lips are real by the way. I get asked that all the time, and given that you were _gawking_ and all…"

Arthur blinked, and the way his eyes burned a little was proof that he actually _was_ staring. He didn't know what had come over him. He normally had such good control over what he did, even when intoxicated. He'd been swatted by his mother when he was little for staring, and he'd never done it again. That is, he'd never done it again until that night, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out why he'd gone so stupid in fascination over this leather-clad bulk of a man who just happened to have full lips and the bone-structure of a model. He didn't care to take any notice of the man at all, whether his tattoos said things or the fact that he had dark eyeliner painted around his eyelids or that he had a scar in his right eyebrow.

"I don't care about your lips," Arthur replied flatly. "I don't even like your band. I think all rock music is stupid."

"That's another thing I'm not surprised by being that you didn't clap, not even once. Why'd you bother to come, my coifed little friend?" Eames actually had the audacity to run a hand over Arthur's slicked back hair, and Arthur swatted it away.

"My friend Ariadne made me come with her. For protection."

"Ah, girlfriend," Eames said with a sigh. "Now I get it. You're here to get her an autograph, right? The rest of the band went out to drink—"

"Ariadne's not my girlfriend," Arthur replied bluntly, and Eames shut up and looked almost…

Delighted?

"Oh, really? Potential girlfriend?"

"She bribed me with dinner," Arthur replied, pressing his back against the wall as the world started to tilt a little. He at least didn't feel nearly as wasted now that he'd puked. "She's just a friend, and I don't intend to change that anytime soon."

"Hmm…" Eames said.

Arthur didn't know what that meant, and frankly it made him uncomfortable.

"Then why _are_ you back here?" Eames asked, removing his cigarette from that mouth of his that Arthur wasn't staring at.

"I had to vomit, and all I saw was a trashcan. I didn't know this was staff only. Trust me, I'm not sniffing for autographs at all, so don't flatter yourself. I had to get drunk just so I could tolerate your show."

"You wound me," Eames said, but he was still smiling like everything Arthur said was so goddamned _funny_. How could this guy be so amused all the time? It was starting to irk Arthur severely. "Those songs mean a lot to me, you know. That's my heart and soul you're insulting."

"You don't sound very agitated over it," Arthur said, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, well, no, of course not," Eames replied with a shrug, planting a hand next to Arthur's head so that he could lean in close to whisper, "that would give you far too much satisfaction, now wouldn't it, darling?"

Arthur tried to summon up the ability to go flying into a rage, but with the alcohol rolling through his system all he could focus on was how Eames's voice made him feel like he was sinking into a tub full of hot water. He barely managed to squeak out, "You've got a lot of nerve."

"What, teasing a little pipsqueak like you?" Eames chuckled. "I could throw you with one arm."

Arthur did not take that opportunity to look at the arm flexed at the side of his face and how he probably couldn't get his hand halfway around his bicep.

Well, he didn't do it for any other reason than a mathematical one. As quick as he was, he usually fought with words, and Eames definitely had a leg up on him in brute strength.

He did not take that opportunity to look at the legs squeezed into the leather or at the trail of hair between the navel and the tie at the crotch of the pants, and then he definitely didn't stare at his crotch because that's not something that Arthur does. He'd never been interested in anyone, much less other _men_ , because he didn't have time for such nonsense like relationships and foreplay and sex.

…not that he was thinking about sex at that moment. Of course not! The word only came to mind because the bastard was parading himself as the definition of the word, as rock stars often tended to do. Arthur wasn't like that at all. He didn't even allow himself the weakness of touching himself, choosing instead to take ice cold showers or thinking of other things.

He didn't _want_ Eames.

He'd never wanted anyone in his entire life. He didn't even know what it felt like to want anyone.

"Now, are you some sort of android or are you really that incapable of getting a rise out of?" Eames asked, and he was _still_ smiling, only this time he was _right there_ , and Arthur could feel his breath when he spoke.

"I… I don't have any reason to be offended or satisfied by anything you say because I don't have enough respect for you to be so. Wh—why should I?"

"Well, you'd be able to prove me wrong about you being an emotionless twat," Eames said with a shrug.

"I'm not a twat—"

"So, you are emotionless?... and you think that you can insult my music? How can you know a damned thing about music if you don't know anything about feelings?"

Arthur's mouth fell open, and he wanted desperately to come out with one of his famous venomous retorts, but his brain wasn't supplying any. Eames chuckled low in his throat, shaking his head like Arthur was ridiculous and said, "My, you're adorable when surprised, like a puppy. You should go find your friend, love. She's probably worried about you and your ah—box."

Arthur clutched his violin case handle tighter. "It's a violin! I'll have you know I'm a 4.0 student at the Cobol School of the Arts, so my criticism of your music is perfectly justified!... a—and don't call me love, or adorable, or darling!"

"You didn't give me a name to call you by, cherub," Eames replied, stepping away from him and tossing his cigarette butt into the trashcan, "and just because you've got good grades doesn't mean you're a musician. It just means you're a good student."

Arthur was still gaping like a fish for some kind of retort, but he was literally frozen in shock. He'd never had someone completely wave off his musicianship. _Never_ … and this motherfucker was going so far to claim he didn't know a damned thing, and he hadn't even heard Arthur _play_.

Arthur had never hated someone so much in his entire life.

He generally liked to keep a tight lid on his emotions so as to keep himself calm and collected. He never wanted to let anyone get under his skin because in the end screaming and yelling and throwing a fit was an exhausting waste of time. He had rather cut his ties with anyone who dared insult him and move on, staring a laser focus at his forthcoming music career…

…but this…

 _This_.

This he didn't know what to do with. He was suddenly overflowing with so many feelings all at once that he was afraid the top of his head might just burst off and his brain would splatter against the wall. His adrenaline was boiling and rushing through his veins, heart pounding, and he was gasping for air, and the bastard was just walking away.

"HEY!" Arthur shouted, causing Eames to turn around and just _look_ at him.

Well, that was about as far as Arthur had gotten with words being that his brain was handfuls of muddled chaos. He might as well have been back inside the stadium surrounded by the screaming crowd. That was all he could hear inside his head.

"Oh, bloody fuck, could you keep your voice down?" Eames's voice came cutting through the static, and all Arthur could do was blink in confusion as Eames took him by the wrist and started dragging him across the back lot. His hand was burning hot around his wrist, and Arthur felt like the heat was crawling up his arm, across his chest and up and down his whole body.

"I hate you," he seethed, and the next thing he knew, Eames was shutting the door of a trailer behind them and everything was silent.

"Jesus, are you _trying_ to get me caught by the paparazzi? Fuck, here they come now," Eames grumbled, peeking out of the curtain covering the window on the door as he locked it.

"Why'd you bring me here?" Arthur tried shout, but it came out in an all-too-childish whine. Arthur blamed it on the alcohol.

"I panicked," Eames replied with a sigh, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he turned around. "I didn't want to be caught on camera with you. You should thank me really, since I was rescuing your dignity."

"How—"

"You don't want you and me on the photo of the _National Enquirer_ as secret homosexual lovers do you?"

"No!" Arthur said with disgust.

"That's what I thought, and that's why I ran… Taking you with me may not have been the wisest decision though, but you apparently had something to say to me still. You want that autograph for your friend Arianna?"

"Ariadne."

Eames shrugged, slipping by Arthur to turn on a light. Every window in the trailer was covered with thick, plush curtains, so the light couldn't be seen from outside. "I don't really have a pen or anything," he mumbled.

"I don't need anything from you," Arthur huffed. He was being foolish. He needed to get a lid back on his emotions and get out of there before he lost it again.

There was one problem…

"Oh, you can't leave," Eames said, pushing open a door to what looked to be a small bedroom. "I hate to break it to you, but those paparazzi are merciless, and they aren't going to leave for a while still. You're lucky they didn't get your picture before."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do?" Arthur shouted, and he was so dizzy and out of breath with anger that he thought he might faint.

"You can go wait it out over in the make-up chair and ignore me if you like—Are you all right? You're all flushed."

"I'm… I'm _pissed off_ , you jackass!" Arthur gasped, stomping towards Eames to shove him. It shouldn't have surprised him when Eames's body didn't give at all, being nothing but lean muscle.

"Your pupils are dilated," Eames said, bewildered, "and more surprisingly, you're showing a shred of emotion."

"You've—you've insulted my music without ever hearing me play, and you—you teased me and called me these stupid little pet names, and—and you've _trapped_ me here with you and—and— _fuck_ —"

Eames looked surprised by this admission, as if he hadn't even been there—but then Arthur realized that his gaze had taken a somewhat downward tilt. Arthur, in all of his lack of control, couldn't help but follow his gaze with his own…

…to discover he was rock hard in his jeans…

…and to realize he'd never been so turned on in his entire _life_.

Arthur looked back at Eames as if he had caught him in the middle of some unspeakable crime because for him it _was_. He never allowed himself to get turned on, _ever_. It was criminal of him to break that personal ambition, not to mention the fact that he was breaking it on behalf of this—this—

…alarmingly attractive British famous person in tight pants with full lips and bonestructure like a fucking _model_.

Arthur's cock jumped just from remembering that, and he suppressed a groan.

"Well, you are a confusing little bugger, aren't you?" Eames said, and he was smirking, _smirking._ "Confusing _and_ confused as well. That must be bloody awful for you."

"Fuck—no, I don't—" Arthur stammered, but he was _aching_. He'd never _ached_ quite like he was, and it wouldn't subside no matter what he attempted to think of. Everything all came back to this _Eames_ , a dreadful man he didn't even _like_ and yet could smell his cologne and see the mixture of color in his eyes and remember the sway of his hips when he practically fucked his guitar earlier on stage, dripping with sweat, shining with it, and…

" _Go to hell_!" Arthur shouted, dropping his violin case by his foot, and then he tackled him, taking his mouth in his.

He'd never kissed anyone like this. He'd never even seen _other_ people kiss this way. His lid had blown, and he was running on nothing but pure, carnal instinct. It was a maddening experience that he couldn't understand any more than he could stop it.

"Jesus—" Eames gasped when Arthur came up for air, and he realized that the man had stumbled backwards into the bedroom and that Arthur had wrapped his legs around his waist and let him carry him the whole way.

Arthur's chest was heaving for air, and he was shaking with _need_ , and he was terrified of what had become of his composure in what couldn't have been twenty minutes with this guy, and he was hoping that this Eames person was not who he expected and would _stop_ this before it got too out of control but—

Oh, who was he kidding? It was already too out of control.

"I'm never one to deny anyone of the pleasures of life," Eames said and threw Arthur down on the mattress before jumping on top of him, pressing his body flat with Arthur's, "especially someone who clearly needs to get laid."

Arthur might have made an obscene noise at that point, but honestly he was too distracted by Eames biting and licking all the way down his neck while his hands rucked up the bottom of his shirt and searched around on the prickling and hot skin, and suddenly Arthur was being pulled up into a sitting position and the shirt was on the floor and Eames was raking a pair of crooked teeth across and nipple, and Arthur was a whimpering mess, bucking his hips in the search for some friction.

Eames wasn't one to let him go without, reaching between them to undo the fly on Arthur's jeans and tug them down, underwear and all, allowing his flushed, erect cock to bob forward, and Arthur had never even allowed himself to really look at himself that way. He definitely had never let anyone else see him that way.

" _Shit_ ," Eames hissed, admiring Arthur. "Bleeding Christ, you might be a twat but you are _fit_. Fucking _ace_!" He buried his face in Arthur's neck again before coming up to lick his way into his mouth, and Arthur couldn't stop him and didn't want him to.

Eames pulled away again to unlace the front of his pants, and Arthur had never seen another man in that condition either, and suddenly it was like Arthur was nothing but a big lump of fiery heat, just staring as Eames shoved the tight fabric down his thighs. Arthur somehow managed to kick off his pants being that they were somewhat baggy (he'd lost weight since he'd gotten to college), and he didn't care that he was still wearing his sneakers. He didn't care about anything at that moment.

Eames rifled around on the bedside table in an almost panicked state until he found what he was looking for, and the next thing Arthur knew, something cold was penetrating his hole, and all he could do was yelp.

"Scream all you want, pet," Eames said against the skin of Arthur's thigh. "This place is sound proof."

Eames's finger slipped in deeper and Arthur's legs spasmed where they were laid out on Eames's shoulders. He wasn't gentle in the slightest, shoving another finger in on the third thrust and a third finger on the fifth, and then he was stroking against Arthur's prostate and shouted, eyes flying open, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe or what his name was or where he was or what he was doing. All that existed was this _desire_ , and he was kicking himself for ever denying himself of it in the first place, and—

"Oh, _fuck_ , do that again," Arthur groaned and Eames obliged him, and then he could no longer speak. When Eames pulled out his fingers, all Arthur could do was dart his eyes around the room at the dark walls and the posters that covered them, only vaguely aware of the slide of satin beneath him (he had _satin_ sheets, really?), and then he was being flipped over onto his front and Eames was scraping his teeth down Arthur's spine.

He heard a ripping sound and Eames's hands left him for a few moments and then he was shoving himself in. All Arthur could do was bunch the sheets in his fists, burying his face into the mattress and moan lewdly.

"Fuck—fuck—" Eames growled, and he was rolling his hips, seating himself inside of Arthur and then pulling out only to slam back in, and Arthur was wailing, shrieking, drunk beyond all belief on beer and arousal.

Arthur couldn't even get one of his fists to release the sheets from their white-knuckled grip to stroke himself, even though he was so desperately hard and leaking at this point that he could barely stand it. He didn't even know _how_ to jerk himself off, only having done it once or twice, clumsily, when he'd first started puberty—and he'd done that more out of curiosity's sake (the first time) and getting it out of the way (the second time) than anything. Afterward, he'd watched as one of his fellow classmates got suspended from school for being caught in the bathroom doing it, and Arthur decided to not allow himself to get _distracted_ by any sort of ridiculous pleasure because he had goals to achieve and songs to practice.

Soon enough, Arthur was finding even his voice giving out on him, leaving only enough sound for breathy squeaks as Eames pounded mercilessly into him, and… _Oh_ , if Arthur believed in God, he'd be praising him because Eames was wrapping a hand around Arthur's cock and jerking him off, and Arthur's voice found itself again as he screamed and came all over the sheets and Eames's hand.

Arthur's vision went white and flashy, and he lost all feeling in his extremities. He was just floating in a cloud of perfect bliss. Never before had he experienced such a feeling, a feeling that curled over him and over him again and again, making his body ache pleasantly and then go numb, ache and go numb.

When the fuzz faded from him, he found himself plastered against the bed sheets, his own come against his chest, a thick sheen of sweat rolling down his shoulders and back, and Eames was on top of him, panting as he pulled out, and then Arthur was unconscious.


	2. Track Two: I Need Some Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Two: I Need Some Touch

When Arthur woke up, it was to the sound of a door slamming. It took approximately six seconds before he realized that he wasn't in his apartment.

" _Shit_!" he shouted, stumbling out of the bed.

Where were his clothes? Where was he?

Why did his ass hurt so fucking bad?

He stumbled blindly around the dark room until the door swung open, momentarily blinding him with the light from the other room. "Eames—Oh."

Before him stood a tall Asian man in a business suit, raising an eyebrow at Arthur.

Okay, Arthur thought, let's assess this situation.

He was standing naked (except for his shoes—seriously, what?) in an unfamiliar room being appraised by an intimidating looking Asian businessman.

Yeah, he could suffice to say that things couldn't get much worse than this.

"Excuse me for intruding," the Asian man said, but he didn't really seem to mind walking into the room even though Arthur was very much in the buff and horrified and confused and in pain. "I'm assuming that violin out in the other room is yours then."

"Y…yeah," was all Arthur could really say as he tugged his underwear and jeans on over his shoes. "I ah—um… that is…"

"I've shooed off the paparazzi, so you should be safe to leave," the man said, leaning over the body still in the bed.

Oh, shit, there was someone else in the bed—

It was _Eames_.

Arthur had gotten fucked by him that night.

Momentarily he was just motionless, mouth hanging open and eyes staring at the wall as that realization smacked against him like a tidal wave. Now that his mind was unclouded by alcohol and not distracted by pleasure, the weight of what he had done was pushing down on him, and he was floored by the nightmare that was all too much of a reality.

"Who are you?" Arthur asked the Asian man.

The Asian man seemed to give up on trying to wake Eames who was snoring into his pillow and turned back to Arthur, "Saito," he said simply, "the band manager."

"…Oh…" Arthur said, leaning over to pick up his shirt, even though it was painful to do so. He had fingertip-shaped bruised all over, and his hole was still sore. There was also come dried to his chest and abdomen. "Um…"

"If you're going to threaten to sue, I assure you that I can write you a check and have him beaten for you," Saito replied lightly, shaking Eames one more time to no avail before going out into the front room and returning with Arthur's violin case, handing it to him.

"No… no, that's not necessary…" Arthur said awkwardly, tugging his shirt over his head before taking the case. "I ah… I'll just uh… go."

"Please don't tell anyone about this," Saito replied, smiling in a businesslike way. Arthur wondered if he could smile in any other way than that and settled on probably not.

"I don't intend to—I… I'm out of here. I won't tell anyone. I don't want anyone to know!"

The lump in the bed that was Eames moved then, and he sleepily mumbled, "wasn't that bad, was it?"

Arthur didn't stick around to answer, running out the door and out of the back lot and out of the parking lot until he was as far from Eames as his aching legs could carry him.

"So, you are awake," Saito said, looking down his nose at Eames. "What was that all about, I wonder?"

"That was a right twat, that boy," Eames said, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, only realizing he was in the nude when Saito cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked away. "Oh, sorry," Eames said, grabbing a pillow to cover himself.

"I've seen quite enough of that this morning, Mr. Eames. I will never understand the musician's need to stick themselves into any hole possible. I do hope you asked him about his previous sexual partners before going on that little escapade. For you to be diagnosed with some kind of sexually transmitted illness would be very troublesome for the band, especially if the information were to go public, and heaven forbid they find out you're a homosexual."

Eames pouted because really, could Saito ever be something other than business? "I didn't exactly _plan_ on sleeping with him," he replied, stretching a little. "In fact, I was under the impression that he absolutely despised me for most of our encounter. Shows how much I know, I guess… or I don't know, maybe he just really likes hate sex."

"I suppose this is his then," Saito said, lifting something and tossing it to Eames who, even though he was still half asleep, didn't have any problem catching it.

After a quick observation, he discovered it was a wallet. It must have fallen out of his jeans during… well, yeah. It most certainly wasn't Eames's wallet by any means. Curiously, he flipped it open and immediately was caught by the face of the boy from the night before, staring into the camera, clearly a little bit younger but just as serious. It was his driver's license...

"He was a fine bloke, that's for sure," he said, smirking, "at least in the looks department."

"You can share that information with someone _else_ ," Saito replied, tidying up Eames's room as he tended to do. "I'll have someone return the wallet to him sometime tomorrow. I'm assuming you're headed back to London for the next two weeks?"

"Don't worry about the wallet, I'm sticking around. Cobb said he was going to, so I will too. Rent me a hotel room, would you, Saito?"

Saito narrowed his gaze at Eames but pulled out his mobile phone. "You're not going to keep that cheap wallet, are you?"

"I haven't decided what to do yet," Eames said, though that wasn't necessarily true.

* * *

"Ariadne?" Arthur said unsurely when she picked up on the fifth ring. He'd finally stopped running when it hurt too bad and realized he was still too far from home.

"A—Arthur? What the fuck? It's six in the morning. I only went to bed like… an hour ago…" she mumbled sleepily. "What's wrong?"

"I uh… I need you to come pick me up."

"What?"

"I didn't exactly make it home last night, and I need you to come pick me up. I'm at the corner of Parker and Maine."

"Didn't make it… where did you go exactly?" Ariadne asked, voice becoming laced with concern. "Oh, my God, I thought you found a way—your violin was gone, and I didn't see you around so—"

"I was really drunk, and I got sick, and then I passed out and…" Well, it wasn't necessarily a lie. He just left out the part in between getting sick and passing out. "Please, just come and get me. I need to get home and clean myself up before rehearsal."

"Oh, my— _Arthur_! I'm so sorry—"

"Be sorry later. Just come get me."

"I'll be there in like… five minutes. Just wait there. I'm so sorry, Arthur. I should have called you."

Maybe if she had, he would have managed to remember what the hell he was doing and stop himself. He didn't bitch at her for it at the moment though since she was the only person who could come get him. He just mumbled thanks and hung up.

She was there in only a few minutes, still in her pajamas, and Arthur eased himself into the passenger seat. It was only after he shut the door and caught his reflection in the visor mirror that he realized how ridiculous he looked. His hair had been mussed into very awkward tangles, sticking up and out. His eyes were lined with dark circles yet his cheeks were flushed from running. He couldn't see any of the marks Eames had left on him through his clothes, but he could feel them on his skin. He could still imagine his fingers on him… _inside_ him.

"Oh, man, Arthur, I thought you made it home. I suck so bad. I'm the worst friend ever! Ugh… and I didn't even get an autograph either. I should have just taken you home. Fuck," Ariadne rambled but Arthur was only halfway listening, distracted by Radical Notion's song playing on the CD player.

He'd slept with the lead guitarist of Radical Notion.

That was something fans and groupies worldwide had _dreamed_ of doing… and yet the only person in the world who apparently _didn't_ want to had ended up doing it.

Well, that wasn't completely true… after all, he'd been the one who'd started the whole thing—

NO! He'd been seduced and bamboozled! He'd been drunk and out of control! This was just a moment he needed to put behind him and never tell anyone about ever.

…even if it had been his first time…

That shouldn't have been the punch to the gut that it was, considering he'd never allowed himself to take even a half-step in the direction of a non-celibate lifestyle before then, horrified of even the _idea_ of masturbation. Sure, he was twenty years old and male, so by the standards of most of the other guys his age he knew, he should have lost his virginity long before, but he hadn't. Maybe that was why he was so pained by the realization… because he'd just up and thrown out twenty years of self-control for a one night stand with a guy he didn't even like.

"Are you okay?" Ariadne was asking, and all Arthur could do was nod a little and blame the way his eyes were watering and the way he was clutching his head on a hangover.

She dropped him off at his apartment, and he hoped that would be the end of it, but when he had to pause on the stairs because he was in pain, she got out of the car and went to his aid. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, taking hold of his arm. "What happened to you last night?"

"Nothing, I just… slept weird, and I'm sore."

He wouldn't normally lie to Ariadne, since he trusted her with a lot of things he didn't trust anyone else with, but this was something he was sure he couldn't tell her. He just _couldn't_ tell her that his ass was sore because he'd fornicated with another _guy_ who just happened to be the lead guitarist in her favorite band.

She'd probably be _jealous_ that he'd been violated instead of her (not that he hadn't brought it on himself—you don't just throw your legs around the waist of someone you don't want to fuck around with). In fact, he was almost positive that she would be jealous. That, and she probably wouldn't believe him. He barely believed it, and he'd _experienced_ it. It just didn't sound like something he would ever, ever do.

Oh, but he'd done it… he remembered distinctly the way it had felt. He'd never felt so on fire in his life, never been so hard, never moaned so loudly… His cock jumped a little in his jeans just thinking about it.

He sent Ariadne away as soon as he got inside and made a beeline for the restroom, stripping out of his clothes. He was only marginally surprised to find blood in his underwear, but he still cursed. He scrubbed himself until his skin was raw in the shower, getting rid of the come and bits of dried blood but failing to remove the bruises and shame.

It was a moment of weakness, he told himself. Everyone was guilty of it once or twice. He wouldn't allow himself to have another one.

Fuck Eames!

…well, no, that probably wasn't the right way to say it…

_Forget_ Eames.

That was better.

* * *

They were in the middle of tuning up when his French teacher and assistant music professor, Mallorie Cobb fluttered in, graceful and dazzling like she always was. "Good morning," she greeted with a perfect smile, and Arthur was reminded again that he had thought he might have been able to fall in love with her if he had had the time.

"Good morning, Mrs. Cobb," the orchestra of students said in unison.

Arthur couldn't help but flash a smile at her when she was smiling like that, and he very rarely smiled at anyone. There was a reason Mal was his favorite teacher.

"Now," she said, climbing up the steps onto the stage, trailing her hand along the lid of the grand piano being tinkered on by Robert Fischer, "I have an announcement to make."

Arthur lowered his violin from his chin, looking away from his music stand to listen. He was grateful Mal had come in and taken his attention away from the thoughts weighing on his mind and the dull pain still throbbing through his body. He never felt as tired or pathetic when she was around because she just warmed the room.

"It might sound like bad news," she continued, just _beaming_ , "but it isn't, so hang in there with me, all right?" There were mumbles of agreement all around. Arthur felt a tiny stir of excitement and nerves bloom in his chest. "Okay," she said, "I regret to inform all of you that the recital two weeks from now has been cancelled."

Arthur was shocked and appalled, and everyone else seemed to be of similar sentiments. They'd been practicing for weeks for that recital.

"Now, now, don't get upset because that's only the first part," she explained, pushing a curl of brown hair behind her ear. "The recital is cancelled, but you'll still be playing a concert. As some of you may know, there is an organization that was started a couple of years ago called 'Save Our Songs' or 'S.O.S.' for short. It was started by a few very well-known musicians to help fund money for music programs around the United States and overseas. In a couple of weeks, they will be holding a benefit concert to raise money for their program… and I've gotten the go-ahead to let all of you perform in it."

Momentarily the entire room was stunned into silence. After that, the cheering began.

Arthur normally didn't get all that excited about things, choosing to keep himself composed and save his glee for the performance (after all, there was always the chance someone could fuck it all up), but this time he couldn't help but break into a face hurting smile because this was _big_. S.O.S.'s benefit concerts were usually filmed live, and they played for unbelievably large crowds.

This was incredible.

So many prestigious musicians watched or even attended these events, and there was a definite possibility that Arthur could walk away from the performance with an invitation to join up with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.

His toes curled just thinking about it.

He just needed to practice, get the 'okay' to play a solo performance (which wouldn't be hard considering how fond Mal already was of him and his playing), and then he'd need to practice some more, and then maybe his dreams would come true.

Oh, _fuck_ yes, this was almost as good as that orgasm the night before!

…and he'd told himself he wasn't going to think about that anymore because it made his dick do things he didn't want it to do…

He could barely focus through the rest of his classes and rushed home to practice as soon as school let out, and he didn't think about Eames again.

…at least not until the next day.

* * *

It was Saturday, so Arthur had plenty of free time to just refine his technique to perfection, but he'd just started wiping down the strings when there was a knocking at his door.

Arthur groaned, setting the violin down in the case to go find out what Ariadne wanted to bitch about, but… well, it wasn't Ariadne.

It was a man.

It was a man in baggy jeans and sneakers, a gray hooded sweatshirt (hood up), a navy ball cap, and aviators. His hands were shoved into the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and he was looking nervously over his shoulder, moving a toothpick from one side of his mouth to another and back again.

"Can I… help you?" Arthur asked awkwardly.

"Ah, yeah," the man said, and his voice sounded terribly familiar. In fact, that mouth of his looked pretty familiar too. "I wanted to return this to you. Arthur." He removed his hand from the pocket to show Arthur his own wallet. He'd been so distracted that he hadn't even noticed it had gone missing. "Everything's in there, I assure you, and I thought that I should personally return it to you being that you and I ah…"

Arthur's eyes widened as realization dawned on him.

It was Eames.

"Fuck!" Arthur shouted, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him inside, slamming the door behind the two of them. "Are you out of your mind? What the fuck are you doing here? Do you have any idea what would happen if someone saw you here like this with me?" he whispered, pulling the curtains shut.

Eames laughed. "Why are you whispering?"

Arthur's nostrils flared, frown deepening on his face, but he didn't exactly have an answer. He'd just panicked was all…

…and that was embarrassing because he'd said he wasn't going to panic anymore.

"Yeah, I know what would happen if someone saw me, thus why I wore a disguise," Eames replied, removing the sunglasses, and his eyes should not have still been absolutely gorgeous when Arthur was sober.

"With an outfit like that, you would have been less obvious running around screaming 'hey! I'm a rock star in disguise!' Seriously…" he snatched his wallet from Eames and shoved it into his back pocket and didn't look at him directly.

"Well, no one spotted me, so you're safe, I assure you. I'm not out to get my face all over TMZ either, you know. I don't want to sully my band's reputation."

"Then why did you even come here?" Arthur grumbled, plopping down into his chair and picking up his violin so that he could focus on something other than the still-surprisingly-fuckable man lounging on his sofa.

"I felt bad, so I decided to return your wallet. You left in such a rush."

"Why'd you feel _bad_ exactly?" Arthur asked, lifting the violin to his eye level to get a closer look for any kind of dust. "You felt guilty for taking advantage of a drunken guy?"

"Well… yeah, sort of, except for the fact of course that you came onto me," Eames shrugged. "That's a lovely instrument you've got there, darling."

"I was _drunk_ , I feel I must repeat. What you did could be constituted as rape, you know," Arthur bit back.

Eames sighed through his nose. "I'm sorry, all right? Do you want some money or something? I can write you a check if—"

"I _don't_ … I don't want your money," Arthur mumbled. "I'm not a _whore_ … I'd never even had sex before last night, and I'm not going to be _paid_ for my first experience..."

Eames leaned forward then, forearms falling onto his knees, and he looked as stunned as he had the night before when he'd discovered specifically what Arthur's _problem_ had been. "Wh—I… I popped your cherry? I… _what_?"

"I didn't expect for it to happen either, okay?" Arthur replied tightly. "Look… just… just forget it happened, okay?"

"Wh—no, I… _fuck_ , really? Bloody hell, Arthur I'm _sorry_ … I mean, I knew you were _tight_ but I didn't expect—"

" _Please_!" Arthur yelped before regaining his composure. "Please… let's not talk about my asshole, all right? It's over. It was just a… a moment of weakness. It won't happen again."

To confirm his point, he leaned his chin onto his violin, pressed the bow to the strings, and started to play Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake Pas de Deux_ to warm himself up.

Momentarily, he forgot that Eames was there, sighing into the song. The song was one of his favorites to play, even though he'd known it for years and years. He never tired of it.

The song ended after a few minutes, and he lingered on that final note before letting his eyes open and lowering his instrument.

Eames was still there, so he wasn't a figment of Arthur's imagination. "You play quite beautifully," he said quietly, and it sounded so strange coming out of the mouth of a rock star.

"I—well, thank you," Arthur stammered, unsure what to do with the information. "It's not that difficult a song to play."

"Don't you like playing it though?" Eames asked then, and Arthur gave him a look.

"What the fuck to you mean by that?" Arthur asked, huffing.

"What I mean is… you look like a bloody robot when you play… I mean… that's _Swan Lake_. That's the part where the prince and the black swan dance together, show how much the love each other. It's supposed to be a bit more dramatic, don't you think? It needs _passion_. It's an absolutely beautiful piece, but if you play it like that, that's all it's going to be. No one is going to connect with you that way, and that way no one will remember your song."

Arthur wanted to shout at him, but instead what came out was, "You know _Swan Lake_?"

"I saw it with my mum when I was a boy," Eames said simply. "Believe it or not, we rock stars do more than drink and party all the time. We weren't coming out of the womb with guitars in our hands and a disdain for society in our minds. We were normal children just like you, and as a normal child, I liked ballet. My mother was a ballerina when she was teenager actually. She played that part, the part of the black swan."

"…Oh… well, uh…"

Eames stood, rubbing his palms together and said, "Play it again… this time though, I want you to completely lose yourself to it. I don't care if you fuck it up. Play it with your soul and not with your hands. Play it for someone besides yourself. If you only play it for you, you're going to be the only one to listen. Linger on the notes if it feels good. Don't focus so intently on the sheet music. In the end, all that is is a guideline."

Arthur snorted again, agitated but brought the violin back up to his chin and shut his eyes.

What the fuck was he supposed to think about when he was playing besides the music? _Love_? He didn't know anything about love. His parents had never been romantic towards one another, and Ariadne's relationships with her boyfriends were ridiculously superficial (thus why they always failed). Him? He'd never been in love. He'd never had time for that, clearly…

…but what if Eames was _right_?

That was a horrifying thought… It was so horrifying that he could hardly believe he'd even allowed himself to have it. Damn, his control was just pathetic when Eames was around, wasn't it? He didn't even have alcohol to blame now.

"We don't have all day, love," Eames taunted, and Arthur felt his shoulder burn when Eames put his hot hand there.

"I'm just—" he squeaked and then cleared his throat, "I'm just getting in the zone. Jeez. Don't be so goddamned impatient."

_…and don't let go of my shoulder…_

Fuck, why was he thinking like that?

Arthur closed his eyes and decided to think of Mal because the woman always looked like she was in love, and he thought that perhaps she'd make quite a lovely ballerina…

…and he started to play…

…but his thoughts of Mal soon started to leave him as the song took over his fingers, and suddenly he was starting to think of not love but of… _loneliness_ …

The song was almost a mockery to someone so alone, so lonely, so sad and longing for a touch or a hint of affection and warmth, for someone to smile at him the way Mal smiled at whoever she loved, the way Ariadne smiled at whoever she loved, the way Eames smiled at whoever he loved. Arthur had never had anyone to smile at… and he'd never seen love as a happy place of roses and romance. Every relationship he'd ever witnessed had crumbled into disaster, and it was just so _sad_ that two dancers could set foot on stage to such beautiful music and fake it so well, make people believe that such a love could exist where passion and the entwining of two bodies was all that mattered… that one kiss could solve any of life's discretions…

His fingers fumbled a little, but he recovered without even noticing, because really, when did this song become a reflection on how _lonely_ he was? He wasn't _lonely_ … he had Ariadne, except for when she was mad at him… and he had his music. He didn't need anyone or anything else. He was in control of his situation, and that was all he needed.

Love was so meaningless and disastrous. Relationships with anyone could be equally so…

Ariadne would probably leave him eventually too because of it, and that would be _fine_ because he didn't _need_ anybody in his life—so what if he got lonely sometimes? So what? So…

His hand fumbled again on the last few notes, but this time he didn't recover, nearly dropping the violin and definitely dropping his bow into his lap. He brought his now free hand up to his face, touching where his cheeks had gone… wet…

"I… I don't understand…" he said, voice shaky. He turned to Eames for some kind of explanation, but he just felt his hand squeeze his shoulder and saw his eyes brighter than any pair of eyes he'd ever seen on someone who listened to him play.

"That was bloody brilliant," Eames said, and his voice was thick, like he'd been holding back tears. "I… I'd definitely remember you after that performance."

"…but I… I messed it up," Arthur stammered.

"I mess up all the time," Eames said with a shrug, "but it's my heart and soul that matters. That's what matters in all music… that's why it's in everything that is beautiful…"

The fool had a lot of nerve saying such sappy ridiculous things to him like that, especially when he was in the middle of his second breakdown in the past two days.

No moments of weakness, he'd told himself.

Arthur grabbed Eames by the neck with his freehand and pulled him down to smash his lips against his.

Just one more weak moment couldn't hurt, right?

Arthur kissed him and kissed him until he was sure Eames was groaning into his mouth, and somehow the other man had pulled free his violin and maneuvered it into the case without damaging it, and both of Arthur's hands were around his neck, desperately holding on.

Eames pulled himself away but only just barely, breathing into his mouth hot and needy. "That's not what I expected," he gasped. "Perhaps I should go before you accuse me of rape again."

" _Please_ ," Arthur panted, and that was apparently all Eames needed because he was kissing him again, and Arthur was clawing at his hair as Eames lifted him into his arms bridal style and carried him across the room to the nearest door.

"Door number one—survey says—" Eames said between kisses and kicked it open. "Bedroom. First try. I'm a genius."

"Shut up," Arthur said and licked into his mouth and dear God what was he doing? He didn't even believe in God, and he was wondering.

Eames dropped him onto the bed and their teeth clacked together, and _fuck_ it should have hurt but it felt so goddamned _good_. He remembered now why he'd gone through with it the night before. Eames was annoying but fucking gorgeous and he was damned good with his hands and Arthur generally didn't allow himself to feel _anything_ when Eames let him feel _everything_.

He needed it. He needed someone to let him be a mess, and if it was someone he just saw all the time, he wouldn't be able to manage to work it into his life. Eames was basically a stranger… the fact that he happened to be a famous rock star had nothing to do with it. The fact of the matter was, he was available, and he was willing.

Eames pulled away to pull his sweatshirt off, and it sent his hat and sunglasses to the floor with it, and Arthur stuck his nose into Eames's chest hair and lapped at his peaked nipple. Eames made a pleased sound and pushed Arthur back down onto the mattress, smothering him wonderfully with his whole body.

"Last chance to back out," Eames growled into his neck.

"I don't remember you saying that last night—Fuck—" Arthur snarled through gritted teeth, and Eames immediately ducked down to unbutton Arthur's shirt.

"Look at you, dressed up like a toff," Eames grinned and threw open Arthur's shirt, sloppily kissing him all down the chest and stomach until he was at his belt, and then he was undoing that too which Arthur was thankful for because his pants were painfully tight already. "How dare you dress like you're going to work on the weekend?"

"Are you gonna talk, or are you gonna take your dick out? Asshole!" Arthur shouted. Eames decided to interrupt him by licking a wet stripe up the underside of his cock and all Arthur could do then was shiver.

"I'm getting to it, my darling little wanker," Eames replied, "but you do have something I can use, correct?"

Arthur whined. "I don't know what you mean."

"You have _lube_ , right?"

Arthur shook his head, biting down hard on his bottom lip. If it was possible, his dick was harder than it had been the night before.

"How do you not—"

"I don't…" he gasped. "I don't masturbate…"

Eames raised both eyebrows in shock, and then he laughed, "No wonder you're such a sexually frustrated little cunt! Bleeding Christ!"

Arthur mewled, arching for some sort of friction.

"I suppose we'll have to deal," Eames said and pressed himself down on Arthur again, kissing him sloppily before hoisting him into his lap. "You don't use lotion or something, do you? Vaseline?"

"Fuck, I don't know!" Arthur complained, pressing his cock against Eames's abdomen. "Just— _ahh_ —do something!"

"Well, all right then," Eames said and tossed Arthur back on the bed and then shoving his fingers into Arthur's mouth, coating them in his saliva. "Thankfully, I have it on good authority you've been well fucked rather recently, so…"

Arthur took in a sharp breath when Eames buried two spit-slicked fingers into his still bruised hole, and then he was adding a third, crooking them and separating them, and Arthur had to squeeze his eyes shut as white hot pain ricocheted through him, followed by a similar pleasure. He stretched him until he was sure he was about to explode and then removed his hand completely, leaving Arthur a writhing mess on the blankets, clawing at nothing, beads of sweat getting caught on his eyelashes.

Eames found his jeans on the floor and dug out his wallet and produced a condom from the inside pocket. It shouldn't have been so hot to watch Eames rip it open with his teeth, but it was. _Fuck_ , it was.

_This is the last time_ , Arthur told himself. _You'll be fine as soon as this is over_.

When that thought had subsided Eames was spitting on his hand (and that should have been disgusting), coating his cock in said spit, and shoving himself inside. When the head of his cock was inside, he grunted, gripping to Arthur's thighs.

Arthur's toes curled from their spots over Eames's shoulders. "More…" he begged, shoving himself up with his elbows so that he could kiss him again and Eames kissed him back all the way down onto the mattress again, pushing himself in deeper.

He didn't care how undignified or wrong or messed up it was. Arthur wanted to be filled up, to be fucked nastily and with no mercy, to feel someone _else_ there in his life that made him feel _something_. The pain and the pleasure were perfect, and he needed to get it out of his system.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," Eames mocked. "Tell me what you want."

Arthur head rolled backwards. "Fuck… fuck me…"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Fuck me!" he groaned. "Fuck me, you jackass!"

Eames _slammed_ into him then and Arthur yelled out a whole slew of curse words he didn't even know he knew, and he didn't care that he had neighbors on either side of his apartment.

"Fuck—fuck—" Arthur spluttered, and his eyes were watering. He clenched around Eames, and then Eames made a sound, and that sound was enough nearly push Arthur over the edge. "Ah— _ahh_ —"

Eames pulled back and slammed in again and again, and it took only that much before Arthur was crashing over the edge, sparks lighting up behind his eyelids as Eames brushed his prostate again and again. He was folding Arthur in fucking _half_ , and Arthur was riding wave after wave of pleasure and it was better than anything he'd ever felt, and he realized that all those jocks who had teased him in high school about not knowing what he was missing when it came to sex had actually been right.

The rocking of Eames's hips lost their rhythm as Arthur clenched around him again, and he was groaning obscenely as he climaxed inside of him, and then he was falling on top of Arthur, freeing himself from his abused hole.

Eames rolled off of Arthur after a moment, and they both just laid there for a moment, sideways on the mattress with their legs hanging off, breathless.

"Well…" Eames said when he seemed to find his voice. "That was…"

" _Awesome_ ," Arthur finished for him, and normally he'd never use such a common word, but his brain had been overloaded and had started hibernating.

"You might be emotionally constipated, but you are a _damned_ good fuck," Eames said. "It's the little surprises in life that make life worth living, yeah?"

"Fuck you," Arthur said and rolled on top of him to kiss him again.

Just one more moment of weakness couldn't hurt.


	3. Track Three: Every You Every Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Three: Every You Every Me

They fucked three times before Arthur was completely spent, sprawled out on one side of the bed, his own seed smeared across his chest, beads of it in Eames's chest hair as well. It was absolutely _nasty_ and Arthur didn't care. He felt like he didn't have any bones left.

Eames dug a cigarette out of his sweatshirt and lit it, and Arthur thought it was so stereotypical that he started to laugh. He didn't notice the look of surprise on Eames face when the sound escaped from his lips.

"You haven't lost your mind have you?" Eames chuckled. "I never expected to hear you laugh."

"The cigarette thing is so predictable, isn't it?" Arthur asked because how could Eames not find it as funny as he did?

Eames chuckled a little and passed it to Arthur. Arthur had tried smoking once in high school and quit immediately after his parents had caught him doing it, but here he was taking another cigarette from this guy he barely knew (and yet knew intimately). This was quickly spiraling toward disaster, but he was so blissed out that he didn't even think about it. He took the cigarette from him and pulled a long drag off of it, smiling as smoke escaped his mouth and nostrils, and apparently Eames thought that was incredibly attractive so he kissed him again.

When Eames pulled away, taking back his cigarette, Arthur was almost asleep, but he blinked himself back to life and asked, "What the fuck are you even still doing in town anyway? Don't you have concerts to play and floozies to bang?"

"That could quite possibly be the least dignified thing you've ever said," Eames said, smirking, "Well, actually no—this was the last city on our tour. The next thing we're doing is the S.O.S. benefit that's going on here in a few weeks, so I just decided to stick around. Nash went home to his folks and Yusuf went home to his many cats and since I didn't have anyone to go home to, I rented a hotel room. Cobb's sticking around since he's a frontrunner in the whole S.O.S. foundation, so I thought maybe I'd try and help him out if he needed it."

"You're performing in S.O.S.?" Arthur asked, finding the strength to rise up on one elbow.

"We do every year," Eames replied. "Oh, fuck, I need an ashtray."

Arthur rolled out of the bed and padded across the room and into the living room, and he may have been limping if the way Eames was chuckling was any indication. He dug a plastic cup out from the kitchen and started back toward the bedroom when his cell phone started buzzing from where he'd left it on the coffee table.

"H—hello?" he asked, fumbling with it as he pressed it to his ear.

"Arthur," Ariadne said on the other end of the line. "Hey."

"Hey…" he said, returning to the room and handing Eames the cup. "What's going on?"

"I was just calling to check up on you. I really feel awful about what happened after the concert…"

"Yeah, you've made that pretty clear," Arthur replied flatly, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "I told you to stop worrying about it. I'm fine, okay? Just don't make me go to any more rock concerts."

"Aw, I'm offended," Eames whispered against the skin of Arthur's back and then sinking his teeth into his shoulder.

Arthur restrained a yelp and elbowed Eames in the ribs.

"So, I heard about the orchestra getting to perform at S.O.S.," Ariadne said. "That's _so_ cool, Arthur. You'd better get me inside. Did you know that that the lead singer of Radical Notion is a frontrunner in that organization?"

"Ah, yeah, I think someone mentioned that," Arthur said, tilting his head back as Eames, apparently not subdued by the sharp blow to his ribs, started running his hands down Arthur's ribs and abdomen. "I'm sure I can get you an autograph at least—" he clamped his mouth shut when Eames's hand found his prick.

"Ugh, if _you_ get to meet them and _I_ don't, I'll be _so_ pissed, Arthur. You have no idea. I mean, that's not even fair because you don't even _like_ them and I _love_ them."

"It's not the worst music I've ever heard," Arthur said, and he was already having trouble catching his breath. "I'm conceding only that much."

"I knew you'd like it. It really grows on you after a while—"

Arthur wasn't sure about _their music_ growing on him, but, " _Ohh_ ," he groaned and caught himself, "I wouldn't go that far." His head fell back against Eames's shoulder, his cock already half-hard from Eames's strokes.

"Hey, you okay? You sound kind of weird—"

"I'm fine, I'm fine, just—I'm fine," Arthur decided explaining was fruitless being in the state he was in.

"Are you sure? You sound out of breath. You're not having an asthma attack, are you? You haven't had one of those since you were eleven."

His cock was standing at full attention now, apparently making up for lost time in the sex department, and Eames was still stroking him, the bastard. "A— _ahh_ —Ariadne, l—let me call you back. I'm in the middle o—of something—"

"Well, hey, I was planning on getting some dinner in a bit, and I don't want you to get so caught up in practice that you forget to eat again, so I'm going to come get you in a while, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Arthur gasped quickly. Eames was mouthing at his neck with abandon. How could he be so fucking _horny_ all the time? "C—call me when you're on your way— _ah_ —okay—all right, bye."

He hung up and then turned to tackle Eames. "You son of a bitch!" he shouted and Eames shut him up by kissing him and rolling so that he was on top of him instead.

"You're the dirty little cockslut, not me," Eames teased and ducked down to wrap his lips around the head of Arthur's prick.

Arthur moaned, bucking into the hot heat of Eames's mouth, and Eames took it like a trooper, never gagging even a little as he took him down, bobbing up and down, hollowing out his cheeks, until his nose was buried in Arthur's dark pubic hair. Eames had already proved to Arthur how talented he was with his tongue, but suddenly he was gaining a whole new level of respect for the muscle. He could definitely deal with Eames's little smirk and critique if it was going to end up like _this_.

"Oh, fuck— _oh, fuck_ —I'm— _ah_ —"

Eames placed a hand on Arthur's lower abdomen and pushed, and he was spilling into Eames's mouth, making a high-pitched noise he would normally be embarrassed by. It seemed to take hours for him to settle down, even though it couldn't have even been minutes, and when he finally did he watched a drip of his own come dribble out of the corner of Eames's mouth. He swallowed, and Arthur licked the extra off before collapsing into the bed.

"Dirty little boy," Eames teased, and that was the last thing Arthur heard.

* * *

When Arthur woke up, he was alone and curled up in the middle of the bed with blankets tugged over his shoulders. "Eames?" he called out sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. The guitarist was nowhere to be found, but Arthur realized that someone was knocking at his front door.

"Sh—shit," Arthur mumbled, stumbling out of bed to find that someone had cleaned him up. He tugged on his boxer shorts, vaguely aware of the fact that Eames's clothes were no longer on the floor, and then pulled his pants on over them, throwing his shirt on and buttoning it as he went to the door.

Of course it was Ariadne, and she was staring at him like he'd sprouted a second head.

"Took you long enough… what happened to your hair and—why is your shirt buttoned like you did it in the dark?"

Arthur touched his hair to find it had been mussed out of place again, and sure enough he'd buttoned his shirt the wrong way, leaving one tail of his shirt longer than the other. "I ah… I was asleep," he admitted.

"Oh, well… good for you," Ariadne said smiling. "God knows you don't get enough sleep as it is."

Arthur stepped aside to allow her in, fixed the buttoning on his shirt, and then went to the sink in the kitchen to smooth his hair down with water.

"So, you were practicing and took a break for a nap? That doesn't sound like you," Ariadne said, following him into the kitchen and taking a seat at one of the stools at the counter.

"Ah… well, uh… I guess I was just exhausted. I didn't sleep too well. I was too excited about performing in the S.O.S. concert. I haven't even decided what I'm going to play yet."

He looked to Ariadne to find her grinning like an idiot.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"Something's different about you," she said, smile widening if it was possible. "You don't seem as… _annoyed_ as you usually are."

"Really?" Arthur asked, raising his eyebrows. "I don't feel any different. Maybe that's all in your head. Does my hair look better?"

"Are you in love?" she asked.

If Arthur had been drinking something, he was sure he would have spat it out. Thankfully, he wasn't so that didn't happen, but he still stared at Ariadne incredulously. "Where the fuck did that come from?" he asked. "Are you out of your mind? Of course I'm not _in love_. Did you bang your head or something? Fuck."

"Sorry," she said, though clearly she wasn't sorry, "you're just all glowy, and that's how all my friends look when they're in love."

"I'm excited about the show and the possibility that I could get into a prestigious orchestra, Ariadne. That's all it is. Your friends don't know what love is. They fall in _lust_ with other people, and that's not the same thing."

"Okay, so are you in _lust_ with someone?"

"I don't have time to be lusting after anyone," Arthur replied irritably, smoothing at his hair more while he checked his reflection in the faucet. "Seriously, does my hair look okay? You wanted to go get dinner and I don't want to walk into a restaurant looking like a jackass."

_"Fuck me, you jackass!"_

Arthur smiled a little, unable to help himself.

"It looks fine," Ariadne sighed, hopping out of the stool. "Tell me what's going on. You're borderline chipper."

"I am not," Arthur said, rolling his eyes as he tucked his shirt in. His pants were loose enough on him that he could do it without unbuttoning them, and he decided he really did need to eat more. "You're mental."

She appeared to let it go after that, the both of them heading off to Starkey's for some beer and cheeseburgers (Ariadne got to choose because she drove). She didn't say anything else about it at least, but she kept sending looks in his direction every few minutes or so, and Arthur had to catch himself from getting lost in his thoughts for fear she might take a little grin the wrong way. He didn't smile too much a lot of the time, so he was sure she would think it meant something that it _didn't_.

He listened as she excitedly told him about how her design had been picked out as the best in her architecture class, and he told her about the different groups that were going to be at S.O.S. He didn't know who most of them were, but she only seemed to get more excited by every name. When they were joined by a couple of Ariadne's friends and Arthur didn't complain, he knew that she'd come to the conclusion that something was up, but he wasn't caving to her.

He wasn't any different just because he'd had his brains fucked out by a jackass who didn't even stick around after he fell asleep.

He wasn't different at all.

"Hey," Ariadne's friend Tony said, nudging Arthur with his elbow, "did you pull the stick out of your ass or what? I don't think you've said as many words to me in the whole time we've known each other that you've said tonight."

Arthur scoffed at him. "You were talking about the program I'm going to be playing in. Talk about something I can relate to and I can return conversation."

Tony shrugged and sucked on his cigarette and Arthur refrained from smiling at the way Eames's mouth had curled around a cigarette.

By the end of the night, Arthur dug out his wallet to pay for his meal and realized there was something _else_ in his wallet. He waited until Ariadne and the rest of the group were distracted to look at it.

It was a hotel card key with a note wrapped around it.

_Sugar, why don't you come and see me sometime? Room 1256—the Hilton_

Arthur hid the note and the card away before anyone could see it, but he couldn't hide the blush that tipped his ears. He was just lucky they couldn't hear the way his heart skipped a beat.

* * *

Arthur had decided not to see Eames again.

He'd had plenty of mind-blowing sex, had enough of being weak and messy and pliant underneath someone else, and now he needed to sit back and practice and move on with his life and just forget the man.

The problem was that suddenly he was starting to _hate_ the way he played. Every song he used to think was near perfection was suddenly robotic and boring. He tried to delve into his emotional reserves and play from his heart, but it was like there was another him inside stopping himself. It started to frustrate him to the point that he was tempted to throw the instrument against the wall…

On top of all of that, he was lonely. Ariadne had gone out with her friends to continue barhopping and partying because apparently she didn't have anything important to do (actually she probably did), but Arthur of course had opted out of such shenanigans. He'd always done so in the past and never regretted it for a second, but oddly enough he was starting to. It might have been fun to participate…

If he believed in God, he would have been asking him to send him a sign, to tell him what he was supposed to do, and that was when his cell phone started to ring.

"Arthur!" Ariadne shouted into the receiver. "Oh, my God! You're not going to fucking believe this!" She certainly sounded excited.

"What?" he asked, pulling the phone away from his ear slightly.

"It's Dominic Cobb! The lead singer of Radical Notion is at this fucking bar! Oh, my God! This is the best day of my life!"

She hung up, probably to record video with her phone, and…

…well, fuck, if that wasn't a sign, Arthur didn't know what was.

* * *

When Arthur arrived at the hotel, violin in tow, he was sure he was a bit overdressed. He'd changed into a three-piece suit because he'd gotten a grease stain on the shirt he'd been wearing, and he'd showered and slicked his hair until it was perfect, and he wasn't sure why he was working so hard.

This wasn't about sex though. He was just going to Eames for advice on how to get into those emotional reserves that he couldn't seem to find.

He was stopped on his way to the elevator by some tough looking guys in suits and searched.

"What's the big fucking deal?" he asked irritably. "Has there been some sort of terrorist threat on this hotel or something?"

"We've had eight people here looking for the lead guitarist of Radical Notion tonight," one of the men said.

"Who?" Arthur asked in annoyance, and as they closed his violin case they seemed sheepish. "Look, I've got things to do. Can I go to my room now?"

"O… of course, sir."

When Arthur was inside the glass elevator, he couldn't help but think that that was entirely too easy.

He was stopped again on the twelfth floor, and he was forced to claim he'd hit the wrong button, go down to the eleventh floor and sneak his way up the steps.

He slipped the card into the door just as he heard the guard coming around the corner and got inside before he was seen.

"Fuck," he hissed, stepping away from the door and yet still watching it as if the guard would come barreling in to get him.

"Did you already miss me?"

Arthur turned around to find Eames lounged on the bed with a tumbler of alcohol on the bedside table and moleskin in his hand, a pencil's eraser being chewed on between his lips.

"Hello, darling," Eames greeted, looking back down to the moleskin. He was in nothing but a robe. "It's nice to see you dressed up for me. I would have done the same if I'd known."

"I'm not here for sex," Arthur huffed, frowning.

"I never said that you were," Eames said, sitting up and grabbing his guitar out of a case on the floor and strumming it. He winced when the top E string was out of tune and adjusted it accordingly before beginning to play. "Care to tell me _why_ though? I'm not a bloody psychic after all."

"Well, I ah…" Arthur said, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, "I can't… I can't play anymore… I was hoping you could help me…"

Eames paused in his playing. "I thought that I didn't know anything about music."

Arthur should have expected that, but it made him angry all the same. "Look, maybe you were _right_ about the emotional aspect of the music, okay? Fuck, if you were just going to throw that in my face, I don't know why I bothered to come here."

"Now, now, don't get your knickers in a twist," Eames chuckled, putting the guitar down on the bed and getting up to grab one of Arthur's hands, pulling him over to the bed. Arthur took in how nice and how fancy the hotel room was so that he didn't have to look at Eames. "I was just teasing you."

"Well, it's not funny," Arthur spat back, pulling his violin case up to his chest and hugging it there as he sat down on the mattress. "My music means everything to me, and I don't appreciate it when you shit all over it."

"Then, I kindly ask you to do the same for mine," Eames replied and Arthur could have cursed over the fact that Eames had caught him again. "Don't be such a bloody hypocrite, love."

"I told you to stop calling me those names," Arthur grumbled, protectively squeezing his violin case.

"I'm sorry. _Arthur_ ," Eames corrected himself, and the way the r's rolled off of his tongue made Arthur feel tingly. "So, what's the problem?"

"I… I can't… I don't know how to play any differently than I always have," Arthur mumbled. "I… I tried to tap into myself, but I just keep… not doing it, I guess."

"Are you that afraid to bare yourself to others?" Eames asked, and Arthur turned to him then, trying to come up with something to say, but as per typical with Eames, he was rendered speechless. Maybe he shouldn't have come after all. Clearly these things weren't going to stop after a couple of rounds of sex. Maybe Eames was just smarter than Arthur gave him credit, and he was constantly underestimating him.

"Play," Eames told him, getting up and going to the door. Arthur heard him send the guard away to go get him something to eat.

"Wh… what do you want me to play?" Arthur asked.

"Your heart," Eames replied, returning to his spot next to Arthur.

"I don't… I don't know that song…" Arthur said quietly.

"That's because you haven't been listening," Eames replied and poked him in the chest. "I'm talking about _this_ , you twat."

"I—no, I don't play original pieces. I've never—"

"Just. Play."

Arthur sighed through his nose in frustration and opened the case, lifting the violin to his chin, pressing the bow to the strings and… hesitating.

What the fuck was he supposed to play?

"I don't know what to—" Arthur said, feeling frustration coiling up his spine.

Eames pressed his hands into Arthur's back, rubbed them on his biceps, wrapped them around his waist while balancing his chin on Arthur's unoccupied shoulder. "How are you feeling right now?" he asked.

"Frustrated," Arthur grumbled.

"Play frustration."

Arthur clenched his jaw and started violently rolling his bow across the strings, building the sound in speed and pitch until he's worried the strings might fray or snap and he stops, breathing heavily, eyes wide and wild.

"Well, that's not exactly a _song_ , but it certainly sounded like frustration," Eames said.

"I don't write my own pieces, Eames!" Arthur shrieked, and he didn't realize how much it had built up until it was coming out of his mouth so desperately. "I don't know what you want me to do! Fuck!"

"All right, all right, no need to freak out," Eames said calmly, and that only made Arthur angrier.

"I don't freak out! It's not something that I do! Now, all of a sudden you show up in my life, and I can't _stop_ freaking out!" Arthur shouted, jumping to his feet. "I never freaked out before then! I never panicked about anything!"

"All right," Eames said, taking over the spot where Arthur had been sitting and letting his forearms rest on his knees again, "how does _that_ make you feel?"

"How does _what_ make me feel?" Arthur yelled, and admittedly he was getting a little hysterical.

"The fact that you're freaking out, the loss of control, how does that make you feel?" Eames asked.

All of the anger and hysteria dripped away from Arthur, leaving him heavily breathing and feeling pathetic and lost and, "…scared…"

"It makes you feel scared?" Eames asked for confirmation.

Arthur nodded, grimacing at his own weakness, feeling tears trying to well in his eyes.

"Do you feel that?" Eames asked standing and pressing his hand to Arthur's chest. "Do you feel that turmoil in your chest?"

Arthur sniffed, wiping at his eye with the back of his wrist. "Y—yeah… I do…"

"Play it out. Let the music flow through you and heal you. Don't take control of the music. Let the music take control of you. It's all right."

"—but—"

"Just trust me," Eames said, stepping away from him. "You may come to find that freeing yourself of a little control is a good thing. Just play."

Arthur sighed and did as Eames asked. He didn't know what he was doing, but he played anyway, letting note after note cry out from his instrument, slow and soft and sad…

The violin wailed, and his fingers trailed up and down the strings, but soon enough it felt more like he was listening to someone else playing rather than himself as he lost awareness of his hands, of Eames, of the hotel room, of _everything_. The only thing that existed was this one slow, sad song and himself, and it was astounding how much the tune of it seemed to settle his nerves. It was beautiful, he thought, whatever it was, and it put him at ease, or at least he thought it did until the song came to an end and he realized he'd been crying onto his violin the way it had been crying out to him.

Eames pulled him into a slow embrace, and Arthur pressed his face against the warmth of his neck, and he still didn't know why he was so devastated, arms hanging limp with his instrument and bow by his sides, until Eames spoke.

"You're so sad on the inside," Eames mumbled. "Why are you so sad, darling?"

Arthur sobbed.

* * *

When Arthur recovered from his sobbing fit, his violin was back in its case, and he was curled up on the bed in Eames's arms, listening to him as he sang one of Radical Notion's songs that he recognized from the concert. It was the one that always made Ariadne cry.

He sniffed just as Eames finished the song, trying to signal that he was listening and that he was all right now because he wasn't sure if he could speak.

"That was such a lovely piece, Arthur," Eames said. "You really are so very talented."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better," Arthur whispered.

"You didn't hear it like I did," Eames said.

"Yes, I did… I heard it…" Arthur said, pulling away from Eames's arms to look him in the eyes. "I _did_ hear it. It's too _sad_. Nobody would like something like that."

"I liked it," Eames said. "Does my opinion count for nothing again?"

"That's not… I mean… why would anyone like something so sad and pathetic?..." Arthur asked hesitantly, and even he wasn't sure exactly what he was saying.

…but Eames knew… Of course he knew…

"You really _weren't_ listening," Eames said, shaking his head and smiling. "The piece wasn't pathetic at all. It was beautiful and lonely. I could hear you calling out for someone in that song. I could hear you begging for someone to listen, and maybe you were trying to tell yourself that, I don't know, but I heard it. There is someone underneath this façade you've got trying to make a sound. You really should give him a chance too because he sounds bloody beautiful."

Arthur looked down at his lap, wiping at his eyes with his wrists. "Everyone thinks I'm this… unfeeling snob… and that I hate everyone… that I don't make time for anyone else because I think I'm better than them… Who's to say they're wrong about that? Ariadne's my only friend, and she tolerates me at best."

"You can't be afraid to open your heart to people, Arthur," Eames said, reaching up to touch Arthur's cheek. "You're afraid that if you bare yourself that people might not like you, so you shut them down before they have the chance to do it to you, and you shouldn't because people will most certainly not like you if you don't let them know who you are."

"What if I really _am_ this person everyone thinks I am?" Arthur asked.

"Never be ashamed of who you are. Bollocks on everyone else. There will be people out there who like you."

"You're… you're not the person I thought that you were," Arthur said.

"I let you take the time to see me," Eames said smiling. "Now, I do believe I'm starting to see you." He leaned in close so that their lips were a hair's breadth away from each other and all Arthur could see was the flecks of colors in Eames's blue-gray eyes. "I don't hate what I see."

"Maybe you just need a little longer to get to know me," Arthur said uneasily.

"I do hope you'll give me the opportunity to find out then," Eames said and filled the distance between them.

Arthur had told himself that he was done with the sex, but really, he did at least _owe_ Eames for helping him out, right?

Besides, the warmth of his mouth seemed to slide down Arthur's throat and blossom outward, filling up all of the emptiness Arthur felt inside.

His music had never failed him in the past…

…but when it did fail him, Eames hadn't…

That had to stand for something, right?

It didn't make Ariadne's claim that he was in love any less ridiculous of course.

Eames slowly undid the buttons on Arthur's waistcoat before starting on the buttons of his shirt. "Tell me, Arthur, why do you dress yourself up so prim and proper?"

"I like to look put-together," Arthur murmured, staring up at the ceiling.

"Is that so no one knows about how you feel inside?" Eames asked, untying an oxford and tugging it off of Arthur's foot.

Arthur chose not to answer, and Eames didn't push the question, pressing a kiss to Arthur's foot after removing the sock and then working off the other shoe and sock.

Well, _fuck_ , Arthur thought as Eames undid his belt.

It was happening again.

He was weakly getting lost in Eames's touches again… but… well, he liked to be touched. It was a luxury he hadn't allowed himself in the past, and there was no guarantee that he'd ever be touched this way again after Eames was gone. He might as well get as much out of it as he could while he could. He could have this time in his life to get lost in someone else. Once Eames was gone, he could go back to normal because temptation wouldn't cloud his judgment. Ariadne and her friends would stop thinking there was something wrong, and he would finish out school and go onto a career in a symphony orchestra with Eames left behind in a distant memory. Eames would move on to other cities, states, countries, and continents and probably bang a bunch of other chicks or dudes and not give Arthur another passing thought.

After all, all this sappy stuff he'd been saying was just to get into his pants. Arthur wasn't so stupid that he didn't know that.

He knew who he was, and he knew he wasn't beautiful at all.

Eames spread Arthur open with his hands and knelt down to press his tongue against Arthur's entrance, and Arthur jolted and shuddered at the sudden contact. "What are you—" he gasped, but then Eames buried his tongue deeper inside and whatever Arthur was going to say was lost in a groan.

Eames licked into him and all Arthur could do was lie there whimpering as he did it. Eames had so many skills with his tongue, Arthur was positive now. It was like Eames wanted to go out of his way to prove just how good with his tongue he was, and Arthur was completely okay with that.

Eames coated Arthur's entrance with his own saliva, rolling his tongue around before pulling away, wiping at his lip with his arm, and Arthur should have found it disgusting but absolutely couldn't when he was already feeling so hot and pliant and Eames had done such a good job—

" _Oh_ ," Arthur grunted when Eames pushed in three lube-slicked fingers with no warning. The burn was absolutely _sensational_ , and when he added his fourth finger, Arthur was writhing. For a long moment he couldn't think or see, body trembling from head to toe as Eames shoved in and out.

"This'll have to do, I'm afraid," Eames told him, voice rough. "I actually didn't expect you to come, so I didn't buy any more condoms. I can get more later, if you like."

"Why are you _talking_ right now?" Arthur complained. "Are you always this talkative? Jeez!"

"Sorry," Eames said and kissed Arthur's inner thigh. "Keep copping an attitude with me, and I'll ram my whole fist up your pretty little arse."

Arthur made a strangled sound.

"Oh, you like that, do you?" Eames asked, and he needed to stop using that voice before Arthur came just off of that. "You like a little _pain_ , don't you."

"Oh… God…" Arthur breathed, balling up the sheets in his hands, and he was so _close_.

He knew he should have been practicing, but _damn_ , Eames was convincing.

"Does it burn, darling?" Eames asked, and he'd wriggled his thumb inside too. Arthur wasn't sure if he could take much more of the abuse, yelping and sobbing. His hole was already sore from all it had taken from the past couple of days, but _fuck_ , it felt so _good_.

" _Eames_ ," Arthur whimpered.

Eames leaned over him so that he was breathing against the side of his face that wasn't being pressed into the mattress. "What, love, what?" he asked, and his voice was so sugar sweet that Arthur couldn't believe he was causing that kind of pain to his ass when he sounded like that.

Arthur couldn't answer, sloppily pressing his mouth to his and moaning as he came without ever laying a hand on himself. Eames swallowed Arthur's desperate sounds and then Arthur could feel him shudder as he came too in the boxer shorts underneath his robe.

They were both still lying there, Eames hovering over Arthur, when there was a knock on the door.

"Eames?" a voice said through the door. "It's Cobb. The guard said you were in there."

Arthur stared up at Eames and Eames stared down at Arthur and neither of them moved for a long moment.

"Ah… uh… just a moment!" Eames called out, swallowing heavily.


	4. Track Four: Tell Me When It's Time to Say I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Four: Tell Me When It's Time to Say I Love You

Eames rolled off of Arthur, tugging off his ruined boxer shorts and tossing them into a corner, all the while signaling to Arthur's clothes with his hands.

Arthur couldn't believe Eames expected him to be able to function enough to button anything in the current state he was, but he still made a conscious effort, fingers fumbling clumsily along the floor for what was his and trying to put it on the right way. Why the fuck had he dressed up so much?

He settled for diving into the bathroom and shutting the door when Eames opened the front door and peeked his head out.

"Hey, Cobb," Eames greeted. "What brings you here?"

"Saito told me you were staying in town," Cobb said. "What's that all about? You don't normally like sticking around because the paparazzi buzz around you like flies."

"I didn't have anywhere else to go," Eames shrugged, "and besides, they're going to buzz around me no matter where I go. They can't get up here anyway, so I'm not being bothered right now. Consider it laziness on my part, I suppose. Plus, I'm sick of traveling for the moment."

"Well, hey, do you want to go get some drinks or something? I went to a bar near here, but… well, someone recognized me, and I ended up having to leave. I can send someone to buy us some beers though."

"Don't act like you don't love every second of it when people ask you to sing a song for them or sign their tits," Eames chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. "I appreciate the offer, Cobb, really I do, but I can't drink that piss you Americans call beer. I think I'm just going to have a quiet night in, maybe rent a movie and sleep through it, you know."

"You're so domestic," Cobb chuckled, and Eames couldn't help but think that Cobb should smile more often. "What are you going to tell _Rolling Stone_ when they ask you what you like to do for fun?"

"Hookers and coke," Eames replied and both of them laughed.

"Well, whatever," Cobb said. "I guess I'll just stay in too. I'll go get some wine and just—"

"Oh, I see how it is. You get beer with me, but you buy wine as soon as I back out. I see. You're right terrible, Cobb."

"Well, if I'm not drinking with a buddy, then I'm most certainly going to drink with a girl," Cobb replied, moving away from the door to make his way back down the hall. "It's a shame. I was going to introduce you."

"Perhaps some other time then," Eames said. "I'll bring a date and we'll make a night of it."

"You don't _date_ ," Cobb chuckled, not looking back as he waved goodbye. "If you show up with someone other than a porn star on your arm, I'll not only be surprised but I'll buy dinner for all of us."

"Don't challenge me, Cobb! I may just do it to spite you!"

"See you later, Eames," Cobb said, and the elevator doors shut on him.

Eames shut the door to his hotel room and strode back inside, humming a little. "Arthur? Where did you go?"

Arthur opened the bathroom door, in his shirt but not in his pants, flustered and agitated. "I didn't know you intended to keep me a secret from all your friends too," Arthur growled. "Is it _that_ embarrassing to be seen with me?"

"What?" Eames chuckled until he realized that Arthur was serious. He watched while Arthur pulled his trousers up and buckled them, face contorted in anger and a little shame as well. "Arthur," Eames said, "I wasn't trying to hide you at all. I just figured you'd rather be clothed if Cobb was going to see you. When you didn't come over, I figured you didn't want to meet him, since you weren't all that fond of me either."

Arthur seemed to attempt to cling onto anger but eventually it leaked out of him. "Oh… I… I just assumed that—"

"You assumed that as a closeted homosexual I'd be ashamed of you?" Eames guessed.

"I… well, uh…"

"Ah, well," Eames said, bopping Arthur on the nose with his index finger, "that's what assuming does. It makes an ass out of 'u' and 'me'. No, no, Cobb knows I'm a poofter. I keep my sexuality out of the spotlight because I don't want the paparazzi buzzing around me anymore than they already do. I feel like it would cause too much unnecessary controversy. Believe it or not, I prefer to avoid the spotlight when I'm not performing."

"S—So you go to events with porn stars?" Arthur said, pouting a little. "That's you avoiding the spotlight?"

"Precisely," Eames said, shrugging out of his robe and tossing it into the corner with his soiled underwear, digging a fresh pair and a wife-beater out of his suitcase and throwing them on. "It's exactly what they expect me to do."

Arthur fumbled with the crooked buttons of his shirt. He hated that Eames had caught him yet again. "I don't see what the big deal is…" he grumbled. "People should… they should be able to like what they like. What goes on in the bedroom's none of anyone else's business…"

"If only more people would see it that way," Eames sighed, taking Arthur by the wrists and pulling him against him before they tumbled back into the bed. "Is this not the most bloody comfortable hotel bed you've ever laid in?"

"I can't go to sleep yet," Arthur complained, scrambling to roll off of Eames. "I need to pick a song and get to practicing. I want to be able to perform a solo at S.O.S."

"Oh, hold up now," Eames said, sitting up. "You didn't tell me you were performing at S.O.S."

"Oh… um… yeah. The orchestra at my school is going to be doing a couple of songs there, and some of the students are going to do solo performances. I'm… I'm hoping to get an invitation to the Chicago Symphonic Orchestra," Arthur said sheepishly, "and now that I've realized how much I _suck_ , I've got to practice."

"You don't _suck_ ," Eames laughed, "but I can't stop you from practicing. I do hope you'll stay though."

"Well, I ah… I brought my music with me… but ah…" Arthur pulled the sheet music out from his case and handed it to Eames. "I don't know what to play."

"Well, which one's your favorite?" Eames asked, thumbing through it.

"I don't know," Arthur admitted. "I keep thinking that someone else is going to play the same song… and I keep thinking that there's no way I'll be memorable because I shut down when I play."

"Have you ever thought about playing something contemporary?" Eames asked, tossing the music onto the bed.

"I—well, I don't exactly… listen to much contemporary music."

"You should give it a whirl," Eames said, grabbing his guitar off the side of the bed. "I bet you could tear up some of that music, and a song with words can be easy to relate to when you're wondering what the meaning in everything is. I'm lending you some bloody CDs before you leave. See what you can do with this, and forgive me if I'm not much of a singer."

He started strumming, so Arthur picked up his violin.

He strummed a palm-muted chord until he was sure Arthur was ready and then started singing, " _There's a fire starting in my heart, reaching a fever pitch and it's bringin' me out the dark… Finally, I can see you crystal clear; go ahead and sell me out and I'll lay your ship bare_."

Arthur started hitting quick chords in beat with the song, nervous because he'd never really played anything contemporary before. He actually recognized the song as one of Ariadne's favorites to sing at karaoke. He'd had it memorized by the third time she'd sung it, even though he'd been drunk all three times.

" _See how I leave with every piece of you. Don't underestimate the things that I will do. There's a fire starting in my heart, reaching a fever pitch and it's bringin' me out the dark_ …"

Eames was apparently being humble about his singing. Sure, he didn't sing quite like Cobb, but his voice was smoky and raw and appropriate for the song. It hit Arthur straight in his chest and straight in his groin, and he certainly wasn't having any problem feeling the song because of it.

Arthur started to take a couple of more chances in his playing, getting a little more showy because why the hell not? No one else was around to listen to him play. Eames certainly didn't mind showing off in his chord progressions, even if they weren't complicated.

" _The scars of your love remind me of us, they keep me thinkin' that we almost had it all_ —"

And what the hell, Arthur joined in the singing, but surprisingly it shut Eames up at least for a moment, " _The scars of your love, they leave me breathless, I can't help thinkin'…_ "

Arthur swung his bow down the strings with abandon and jumped onto the bed, and Eames jumped back in singing with him, taking a harmony part like Arthur was some sort of superstar, and Arthur couldn't help but feel amazing because of it.

" _We could have had it all_ ," Arthur sang.

" _You're gonna wish you—never had met me_ —"

Oh, if only Ariadne could see him now. " _Rolling in the deep_ …"

" _Tears are gonna fall_ , _rolling in the deep_."

Seriously. He was not only singing and playing a pop song, but he was doing it in a hotel room with the barely clothed lead guitarist of her favorite band. " _You had my heart inside of your hand…_ "

" _You're gonna wish you—never had met me—_ "

"— _and you played it—_ "

" _Tears are gonna fall—_ "

"— _to the beat…_ "

" _Rolling in the deep_ …"

Arthur was probably acting like a fool, but he didn't care, wailing on his violin as he sang all on his own, " _Baby, I have no story to be told, but I've heard one on you, and I'm gonna make your head burn! Think of me in the depths of your despair, and make a home down there 'cause mine sure won't be shared!_ "

" _You're gonna wish you—_ "

" _The scars of your love remind me of us—"_

 _"—never had met me—_ "

" _They keep me thinkin' that we almost had it all_ —"

"— _You're gonna wish you—_ "

" _The scars of your love, they leave me breathless—_ "

"— _never had met me—_ "

" _I can't help feelin'…_ "

Eames was on his feet now too, jumping up without missing a note, and Arthur stepped down off of the bed onto the floor with him, and they sang at each other in harmony (which Eames apparently came up with on his own), " _We could have had it all… Rolling in the deep… You had my heart inside of your hand, and you played it to the beat… We could have had it all… Rolling in the deep… You had my heart inside of your hand, and you played it with the beating—_ "

The both of them dropped out completely, and Eames started beating on the front of his guitar while Arthur sang, " _Throw your soul through every open door… Count your blessings to find what you look for… Turn my sorrow into treasured gold—_ "

Eames silenced the beating and sang out with Arthur in the silence of the room, " _and pay me back in kind and reap just what you sow_ …"

Arthur started to play again, languid, dark notes that hit him straight at his core.

Eames sang, voice dripping with regret, " _We could have had it all… we could have had it all…_ "

The beat picked up again, and Arthur went into a violin solo reminiscent of Eames's guitar solos at the concert, and he didn't care if he'd once looked down his nose at Eames for it… There was something fucking _exhilarating_ about playing with such lack of restraint. Normally he would be a mess of nerves even being presented with the _idea_ of baring himself to anyone, but with Eames it was just… it was just _easy_. Eames had already seen him physically bared, seen pieces of what lay underneath, and frankly Eames had challenged to show him more, so why shouldn't he give Eames what he wanted?

This wasn't going to last. In a few weeks, Eames would be gone. He was the only one who'd seen this side of Arthur, so he might as well get it out while he could.

" _Yeah_! That is fucking _ace_!" Eames shouted over Arthur's screaming top notes, still strumming a rhythm underneath it.

When Arthur finished his solo, they broke back into the chorus, practically shouting it at each other, and Arthur now knew why rock stars sang the way they did, " _We could have had it all… Rolling in the deep… you had my heart inside of your hand, but you played it to the beat…_ "

" _We could have had it all…_ " Arthur sang out.

" _You're gonna wish you—never had met me—_ "

" _Rolling in the deep…_ "

" _Tears are gonna fall—rolling in the deep—_ "

" _You had my heart inside of your hand, but you played it, you played it, you played it, you played it to the beat_."

Just like that the song was over, and they were standing there staring at each other, breathing heavily. Hair had broken free from Arthur's coif, falling down in his eyes.

"Who knew you could sing like a bloody rock star?" Eames said, stunned. "That had to have been… the most… _brill_ collaboration that I've ever been a part of. If you and I had done that on stage, the crowd would have been going fucking nuts… fucking _nuts_."

"I… I never knew that I had that in me," Arthur said, equally stunned. "Normally I freeze up when someone even _asks_ me to sing, and I never—I never play like that."

"Bloody hell, if you play like that at S.O.S. you might not make it into the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, but you'd damn sure get a career out of that."

Arthur lowered the violin into its case, quietly saying, "but I _want_ to play in an orchestra. I love playing the music I play… I've been practicing for _years_ and I… I don't want all of that to go to waste."

"Love, you've got your problem solved if you can just play with that much soul. If you play with that much adoration for what you're doing, if you have that much _fun_ with it, then you are set for life. You'll be the best bloody violinist in the whole goddamned world. Stop psyching yourself out and you'll be fine."

"…it's just that… I can't do that when I'm by myself or in front of anyone but you… You're…" Arthur swallowed, nervous to admit it, "You're the only one who's seen me this way."

Eames put down the guitar and tugged Arthur to him by his shirt. "Don't worry about it, pet. Just pretend I'm watching. At the S.O.S. show, I will be, all right?" he kissed him languidly and Arthur melted into it.

 _Oh_ , this was bad, Arthur thought. It was getting too easy for Eames to win him over with words and soft touches. He was just relieved that this wouldn't be able to keep happening…

…but…

What would he do then?

* * *

Arthur spent all Sunday alone in his apartment, practicing. He didn't focus on the music nearly as much as he usually did, instead imagining himself in front of a crowd and teaching himself not to freeze up under the pressure.

Even with Eames gone, he could still feel his eyes there, watching him, and it was eerily consoling.

For a while, he turned on Ariadne's favorite radio station and played along with the songs, teaching himself to improvise, and surprisingly he found himself enjoying several of the songs he heard. He had to stop, however, when one of Radical Notion's songs started to play and just listen and—

 _Fuck_.

He _liked_ Radical Notion.

Oh, Ariadne was going to have a _field day_ with this one, he could fucking guarantee it.

It wasn't just because Eames was in the band either. Their songs were actually really _good_. The tunes were great, Cobb's voice was _great_ , and they all seemed to be mentally connected to one another. Now that he was really _listening_ to it, he could understand why Ariadne and so many other people liked them so much. Their music was on a level above most of the other songs on the radio.

He played Chopin's _Nocturne in C Sharp Minor_ that evening and for the first time felt completely and utterly satisfied with it. He'd played it while watching himself in the mirror and was fascinated by the way his expression changed when he actually thought about something more than note values and measures. The piece became so much _more_ than it had been, and he found himself falling in love with music all over again.

* * *

He decided on _Nocturne_ as his choice audition piece and took it into class the very next day.

"Mal," Arthur said, catching her before French class began, "I was hoping you could tell me if I could um… play a solo at the benefit concert. I've been practicing a lot, and I wanted to show you my progress."

She sat on the desk, folding one of her long, delicate legs over the other and smiled. She seemed more pleased than usual, but Arthur didn't think too much about it. "Please do, Arthur. I do love it when you play.

Arthur nodded and set his music on her desk, put his violin to his jaw, and started to play.

He let himself dive into the heart of the song, let his fear and loneliness come spilling onto the strings, let Eames's kind words and soft touches worm their way out into the notes. With his eyes closed, he could see Eames sitting there on the bed, watching him, telling him how beautiful that person inside him was.

He could see Eames's blue-gray eyes with the flecks of green and gold.

He could feel Eames's hands underneath his clothing, brushing along his ribs and abdomen, down his thighs and up his arms, there to assure him that he wasn't so alone, and it was so relieving of a thought that he barely managed to refrain from bursting into tears.

It didn't matter that it was all lies, and he knew it had to be… if it made him play better, he would allow himself to believe it.

The song ended with the last soft, warbling note, and then he opened his eyes and let reality settle back in…

…only to realize that the entirety of the class had arrived while he'd been playing, and now _everyone_ was staring at him.

Arthur swallowed nervously. "Um…" he said, voice caught in his throat.

"Oh, _Arthur_ ," Mal said, standing and putting both hands on his shoulders. "Arthur, that was _beautiful_. That was absolutely _beautiful_."

Did she seriously have tears in her eyes?

Arthur's heart swelled with pride. "Th—thank you…" he said, and then the class started applauding him.

That… had never happened before.

He'd played for Mal before class before and if any students came in, they usually gave him nasty looks. He wasn't exactly _popular_ with the other students; they generally absolutely _hated_ him (given, he hadn't necessarily been _nice_ to them). At best, they'd had a grudging respect for him but usually thought his performances for Mal were him showing off, even if she'd asked him what he'd been teaching himself.

"Arthur," Ariadne said, coming to the front of her group of friends, "that was _awesome_. It's like you were a completely different person. You've never played like that before."

"I… well, thanks, I guess," Arthur said again, awkwardly.

"I felt like… every single note in my _soul_ , or something. I almost cried, Arthur, like seriously," Ariadne explained. "That was so good, really. Play like that forever."

"I… o—okay…"

"Who have you been tutoring with?" Mal asked. "You're playing completely differently than you have been just a few days ago."

"Well, uh— I um," Arthur stammered, placing the violin back in its case. "I just started focusing on the performance aspect of it… I realized that… that no one's going to listen to me unless I play from my heart. I um… I guess I wanted people to love the music as much as I do, and… yeah… that's it…"

"I'm so proud of you," Mal said, touching his cheek tenderly. "It is very important to let people hear your heart. Your song was just wonderful, Arthur, really. Lovely job, Arthur, just lovely."

"Thank you," he said, and he smiled.

In fact, he wasn't really able to _stop_ smiling for the entirety of class. People kept turning around and complimenting him on his performance, wishing him luck in the benefit concert, asking him if he could get them good seats… People were being _nice_ to him. People _liked_ him.

…and he had Eames to thank for that.

* * *

Eames joined Cobb for a drink at a house he'd never been to on that Monday evening.

"I didn't know you owned a house out here, Cobb," he said over the rim of his glass of wine.

"Well, technically I don't," Cobb replied as he paced the floor (as he often did when he was talking). "This is my wife's place."

"It's a little risky, don't you think?" Eames asked with a grin. "I mean, I know you've been married for a year now, but you said you didn't want the paparazzi bothering her and that's why you kept it a secret."

"I know that, and that's why I took extra precautions to make sure no one knew I was here. I'm hoping you did the same."

"Of course I did, Cobb, don't be daft. I hate those buggers bothering me too. Saito sent them off on a wild goose chase on my behalf."

"Good," Cobb said, finally sitting down at the kitchen table. "So, you'll finally get to meet my wife tonight, I suppose."

"Looking forward to it. If she's half the woman you say she is, I imagine she'll be like the bloody Madonna."

Cobb chuckled good-naturedly and nodded, "Well, she's too good for me, if that's what you're getting at."

"That's exactly what I'm getting at," Eames replied, setting down his wine glass and pulling his guitar out of the case. "Also, I've written a new piece. I figured you might like to put some words to it."

"All right," Cobb said. "What is it? You didn't tell me you were writing anything new."

"It's a love song. I wrote it last night, but you know how bloody awful I am at words."

"A love song? You said you hated writing love songs because it was too hard for you," Cobb said flatly.

"Yeah, well…" Eames said, smiling down at his guitar, "it got easier."

Cobb raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead in the process. "Holy shit, are you trying to tell me that you're _in love_?"

"I don't know!" Eames scoffed. "I've got someone in my life though. I've got to tell you, Cobb, I don't think I've felt this way about someone before."

"When did you _meet_ someone?" Cobb asked. "We were on tour, so when did you find the time—"

"Oh, um, I met him a couple of days ago, actually," Eames replied, and when Cobb's mouth fell open he quickly tacked on, "and I know what you're thinking. I know it sounds bonkers, but I mean… Okay, this is weird, but I met him, and he was absolutely this complete and utter _tool_ , all right? He was insulting and rude to me, and he bloody _hated_ me… Yeah, somehow that led to sex, but anyways, I started to get to know him after that, and it turns out—it turns out that he's a musician. He plays the violin, and he's real bloody good at it too. When he plays I see what he's really like, and he's actually become a lot nicer since he opened up to me. I think the whole attitude problem he had was a defense mechanism or something. He's smart, and he's fit, but he's extremely insecure, after all… He seems terrified to let anyone know who he really is, but I… I really like him."

"How can you know that much about a person after only a couple of days?" Cobb asked, clearly skeptical.

"He let me inside, Cobb. He doesn't do that with everyone, I assure you. It's like he's afraid of any sort of weakness and that's really sad, but he actually let me in and… well, yeah… Anyway, how dare you accuse me of not knowing what I'm talking about when you claim you fell in love with Mrs. Cobb at first sight?"

"I never accused you of anything. I was just concerned that you've already decided this much after only a couple of days. Keep talking like that and you'll scare him off, you know."

"I'm not going to bloody _propose_ to him, fuck," Eames huffed, tuning his slightly flat B string. "I didn't even say I was in love with him, but I do really like him quite a lot. It's nice to meet someone in the world who's not trying to get my autograph or just gush about how great I am without any real tact to the conversation. It gets so bloody exhausting when I meet someone and all they have to say is that they listen to Radical Notion and never do anything else. I like having someone of quality to talk to besides the rest of the band. We can talk to one another about music, and he actually _knows_ what he's talking about. We can talk about anything really. His name is Arthur."

"How did you even meet this guy?" Cobb asked, smiling and shaking his head in disbelief.

"Oh, he was vomiting into a trash bin after the concert the other night. His friend forced him to come see us, and things kind of got out of control. You know I never do anything halfway, but for the record he came onto me."

"Clearly… So, this is the guy, the ah… 'walking lawsuit' that Saito was mumbling about the other day."

"Yes," Eames replied, "most likely."

Cobb poured himself another glass of wine. "Well, all right then. Introduce me sometime. Let's hear the song."

Eames would always be friends with Cobb for that reason. He looked out for him, but at the same time he didn't try to control what he did. He gave advice only if offered, and he didn't question Eames's sanity whenever he said something crazy. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that Cobb was secretly crazy as well.

Eames started to play, and Cobb sat with his legs crossed, squinting until Eames finished it and then asked him to play it again, this time scribbling down some rough words onto a newspaper.

"This could be a really great song. We should get the guys back here and finish it so we can perform it at S.O.S. People always get excited about a new song."

"You've got to write it first, Cobb," Eames snickered.

"I'm working on it," Cobb said. "Play it again."

That was when the front door unlocked and in swept Mal Cobb, Dom Cobb's wife.

"Dom," she greeted, eyes lighting up the moment she saw him. "It never ceases to please me when I come home and you're here."

He took hold of her hand and pulled her down for a kiss. "This is Eames."

"Oh, of course I know who he is, Dom," she chuckled and pressed another kiss to his lips before turning and extending her hand. "Hello, I'm Mal."

"Nice to meet you," Eames said, shaking it. "You are lovelier than he says, and that is saying something, I promise you."

"Why thank you," she said, smiling. Her smile was absolutely radiant, and Eames couldn't help but think that Arthur would like her. Somehow, he just knew that. "I appreciate that you wore a shirt to my house."

"The leather trousers are strictly for the stage," Eames chuckled, sitting back in his chair. "They're bloody murder on my bollocks."

She laughed, and Eames was sure he very much liked her.

Eames and Cobb returned to working on their song while Mal busied herself with making tea for herself. When they hit a snag, she piped up, "Oh, Dom, you should have heard one of my students play this morning. It was the best rendition of _Nocturne_ , Chopin's that is, that I've ever heard. He's brilliant."

"Oh, so you're a teacher?" Eames asked.

"Yes, I teach French, and I'm the assistant professor of music at the Cobol School of Arts down the road from here."

"…Oh," Eames said and went quiet enough that Cobb looked up from what he was doing to give him a look. Eames didn't look at him, but he could feel his eyes boring into the side of his head.

"I'm definitely going to recommend he play a solo performance at the S.O.S. benefit. He's just fantastic on the violin, really. Just brilliant. He's a real prodigy. His name is Arthur."

Cobb was definitely looking at Eames now, and Eames just smiled sheepishly at him.

Mal paused in cutting a slice of lemon for her tea. "What? Was it something I said?" she asked.

"Oh, um…" Eames said, and he was sure he was blushing up to his ears. "So anyway, I should probably go. I've got a lot of practicing to do, and you know I wouldn't want to overstate my welcome or anything…"

" _Eames_ ," Cobb said warningly.

"Oh, come on!" Eames complained, and he might have been pouting. "Just because he plays violin and is named Arthur and goes to the same school, that doesn't mean he's the same fucking person!"

"You know Arthur?" Mal asked.

Eames fell silent, shrinking under her gaze. "Ah… sort of…"

Eames feared that he was about to see Mal become a mother bear.

_This could be bad…_


	5. Track Five: I Started Something I Couldn't Finish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Five: I Started Something I Couldn't Finish

Eames was forced to explain himself, though he certainly condensed the story and cut out anything he would deem worthy of murder by the woman near the cutlery. He avoided as much of the sex as possible, but really, there wasn't much else he could talk about considering that was mostly what they did when they were together. Oddly enough, she didn't seem to be boiling over with rage, only confused, but Eames wasn't going to allow himself to be fooled. Women could go from zero to bitch in less than a second, and her fury could very well have been well hidden. His girl friends back in school had been able to hide their anger quite effectively and then commit the most heinous revenge imaginable, all with a smile on their face, and the other girl (or boy) would never even know what hit them.

That was why he made sure to reiterate several times that Arthur made the first move and that he really, _really_ liked him a lot. He could _not_ stress that enough.

When he was finished, Mal opened her mouth, closed it, paused, and then said, "Now… this is _Arthur_ we're talking about? Thin, slicked back hair, three-piece suit Arthur? Violin playing, brown-eyed, full-ride-scholarship Arthur?"

"That's him," Eames said. "He's a pistol, most definitely, but I quite like him."

"So…" Mal said, coming around the counter with her cup of tea poised in her hands, and surprisingly she was _smiling_ , "It must have been _you_ that caused this change in him."

"Change?" Eames asked, smiling unsurely. He was sure the conversation could go one way or another, and he wasn't about to set himself up if it was going to tumble down a bad road. Her pretty little grin could mean that she was prepared to exact her revenge on him, after all.

"Yes… he's not so—so _distant_ ," Mal said, taking a seat. "Arthur, the dear boy, he's very intelligent and very talented, but he's had quite a cold shoulder since the day I met him. It took me a long time to get him to talk to me at all, and he was still very hesitant to reveal anything about himself. He has a way of diverting the conversation to other things, and he's often so _angry_.

"Today though… Today he was different. I could see it in the way that he played. There was something… _tangible_ there. Does that make sense?"

Eames's smile broadened a little because he did understand. He'd witnessed the less defensive Arthur, and the boy had gone and taken Eames's words of encouragement as a challenge. He'd decided to loosen his own reins a little, and apparently it was yielding some positive results (as Eames had expected). The boy really was a damned fast learner. He would punch anyone who thought he was just cocky.

"I didn't really do that much," Eames shrugged, playing with the strings on his guitar. "I just gave him someone to listen to I guess. Maybe he felt safe telling me things because he hadn't already built any kind of ah—kind of…"

"Relationship?" Cobb guessed.

"Ah—camaraderie," Eames corrected, embarrassed. He wasn't about to go speaking on Arthur's behalf since he didn't know for sure what was going on in the boy's head. "He hadn't built any kind of camaraderie with me, so there was no danger in destroying an already cherished friendship or anything, but at the same time, he already knew me quite well, and ah… Oh, bloody fuck, I'm not making any sense at all, am I?"

"Well, whatever you did, I'm certainly happy that you did it," Mal said, sipping at her tea. "I was worried about him for a while. Every week he'd be more hunched and closed off and wary. I was worried he might come in with a pistol and shoot up the place. Things like that have happened before."

"Not Arthur," Eames said, shaking his head. "He's not _loony_ , he's just lonely. He must have had an isolated family life for him to be so uncomfortable with showing any shred of affection. He seems to only feel safe with the idea of people being mean to him."

"Arthur's parents are very strict," Mal said. "They've been pushing him very hard into his music career, but they never seem interested in coming to any of his programs. I don't believe they are the very affectionate type. Every time I've seen them, they're usually passive-aggressively arguing. They never raise their voices, but they just snip and snipe at each other. It's absolutely despicable."

"Are they coming to the S.O.S. show?" Eames asked.

"I don't know," Mal admitted. "Perhaps you should ask him. Why? Are you hoping to put them in their place? I don't know if Arthur would like that."

"I doubt Arthur would introduce me. He doesn't even want anyone to know we know one another."

"That's not very fair," Cobb said, but a look from Mal shut him up. After all, wasn't their secret marriage a bit similar?

"He's a private person, and I'm a ridiculously famous guitarist who, might I remind you, is _closeted_. Do you know what kind of insanity that would bring about if even one person—you know, besides the two of you—if even one person found out about that? I don't want to uproot his world just because of a little… ah… _affair_ of sorts," Eames explained.

"It's understandable," Mal said. "Dear Arthur doesn't handle high-stress situations as well as he likes to portray. I can tell when he's on edge by the look in his eyes, and certain days I fear he might snap. I'm not one to listen to rumors at all, but I did hear once that when he was a freshman he was caught with a razor blade in the bathroom."

Eames didn't let it show that it bothered him, but he made a mental note to check on that later. "I'm sure it was just a big misunderstanding," Eames said.

"Kids can come up with all kinds of things," Cobb agreed. "Most rumors are started about the 'weird' kid anyway. I wouldn't put too much faith in that."

"He's not _weird_ , Cobb. He's just misunderstood," Eames complained.

Eames didn't put faith in the rumors…

…but the idea still troubled him…

He wondered if Arthur had heard the rumors being spread about him.

He wondered if Arthur was missing Eames as much as Eames was missing Arthur.

* * *

" _FUCK_!"

Eames heard it through the shut door of Arthur's apartment, and he twisted the knob to find that he'd forgotten to lock the door.

"Fuck! Fuck! Damn it!" Arthur shouted at his music stand because clearly he was under the impression that he was alone and it was the only thing there to be yelled at.

Eames lowered the hood on his disguise as he shut the door, pulling his sunglasses up to rest on the bill of his hat. Really, the disguise had been unnecessary, given that it was two-thirty in the morning, but he'd worn it anyway since he'd come directly from Cobb's place.

"Fuck, _fuck_!" Arthur whined, and he didn't jump when Eames approached and took the violin from him, placing it back in the case with the bow. Instead, he kicked the music stand and then kicked and punched at the wall. "I suck! Why can't I just fucking play it like I did earlier? _Fuck_! I suck, I suck, I _suck_!"

"Arthur," Eames said.

Arthur whirled on him as if taking notice of him for the first time. Surely he'd known he was there because he'd let Eames take the violin away, but he must not have taken much care to see who it was. Eames figured that Arthur didn't get many visitors, so it wouldn't take much effort to guess. Still, by the look on his face, he'd clearly guessed wrong.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, eyes wild, and he was shaking as he tried to put a lid on his nerves now that they were being seen.

"I just…" Eames said, but hesitated.

He realized that Arthur might not react too positively to him claiming that he just wanted to see him. Cobb was no fool; talking too affectionately could likely scare him away from Eames forever.

It turned out that he didn't need to say anything anyway because Arthur threw his arms around his neck and just clung on for dear life. Eames petted his back for a few moments until he appeared to calm down a little and then released him.

"What was that all about, love?" he asked, rubbing Arthur's cheekbones with his thumbs.

"I had it," Arthur said desperately, "I _had_ it, and now I can't—why the fuck am I so damned inconsistent? I _suck_!"

"Where did all this come from?" Eames asked as gently as possible. "Come on, come on, you just need to take a break from it. You're overworking yourself, pet… It'll be fine, all right?"

"No—" Arthur wailed, but he let Eames drag him into his bedroom. "No, it's not fine. It won't _be_ fine… It's supposed to be, it _has_ to be perfect, and I completely suck, and I'm never going to…"

"Oh, shush," Eames said, pushing him down onto the mattress and tugging Arthur's shoes off. "You've probably been playing since you got home from school, right? Your hands are just worn out, and so are you. You'll play better in the morning."

"—but I need to—"

"You need to take a _break_ ," Eames reiterated. "Overworking yourself is certainly not the answer to your problems."

Arthur tried to form another complaint, but Eames rolled him over onto his stomach. He pressed his palms against his shoulder blades and kneaded his shoulders until he was groaning in relief.

"Does that feel good?" Eames asked, working through the tense muscles in his back with his fingers (he was thankful he'd taken note of how his personal masseuses had done things in the past). Arthur answered his question with a small moan. Eames was sure he himself had never been coiled nearly as tightly as Arthur currently was. It couldn't be healthy to be that stressed.

"I don't—I need… _ohh_ …" Arthur was so damned stubborn, but Eames was quickly gaining the upper hand, he was pretty sure.

Eames slipped his hands under Arthur's shirt, caressing him, and it seemed then that his stiffness finally started to slacken off. After a few more minutes, he was sinking into the mattress and completely pliant underneath Eames's hands.

Eames leaned down and pressed a kiss on the back of Arthur's neck and then pulled him up into a sitting position. He slumped against Eames like he was made of rubber and Eames started working the buttons on his shirt. "There, love, there…" he whispered, stripping the shirt off of him and slowly starting to work his belt.

Arthur's head lolled to the side, pressing his forehead into Eames's neck. "It needs to be perfect…"

"It'll never be perfect," Eames explained. "Musicians are too harsh on themselves for perfection to be achieved."

"I want to—"

"They're going to adore your song, love. Stop stressing," Eames said, pressing a light kiss on his forehead. "Come on, get your pants off. You don't want to sleep in those do you?"

"I—"

"It's time to rest now. No more practice tonight."

"I didn't practice enough—I was too busy having sex with you… you jackass," Arthur grumbled into the skin of Eames's neck, and Eames thought that it was entirely more endearing than it should have been.

Eames laid him down, curling his arms around his waist and fitting himself in with Arthur and sighed against the skin of his neck.

He had intended to stay only until Arthur fell asleep to make sure that he actually did, but he ended up falling asleep as well.

He couldn't help it that he was so comfortable next to Arthur.

* * *

When Arthur awoke, the first thing he noticed was the bitter sting in his hands, partly from playing until his fingers had blistered, and partly because he'd punched the wall when he'd gotten frustrated (in hindsight, that had been a bit foolish). The second thing he noticed was the warm breath on his neck and the arm slung around his waist. Eames. The third thing he noticed was the electronic alarm clock showing 10:30 in bright red digits.

Arthur sighed, feeling defeated, and pulled himself away from Eames's comforting arms. It seemed that as soon as his feet hit the floor, his cell phone started ringing but instead of answering it, he turned it off and then dragged himself into the bathroom to take a shower. He wasn't surprised when Eames appeared in the doorway just as he was stepping inside the bath.

"I'm sorry," Eames said lightly as he leaned against the doorjamb. "I didn't mean to stay the whole night. I guess I was more knackered than I thought I was."

"It's fine," Arthur mumbled as he stepped under the spray. "Just pick whether you're going to stay in or get out of the bathroom and shut the door. There's a draft."

Eames of course picked 'in' and closed the door with his back. "What was all that craziness about last night?" he asked, tugging off his sneakers when he realized he'd slept in everything (his hat and sunglasses had fallen off sometime during the night at least, but he still felt like an idiot).

"I ah—I just get like that sometimes," Arthur admitted awkwardly. "Ariadne calls them my 'freak outs' or something… Usually when I practice for a long time I start to think everything just sounds bad, and the stress of whatever upcoming performance I'm practicing for causes me to… well… freak out. Ariadne's the only one who's seen me do it, and usually all she has to do is slap me to get me out of it. Once she had to hold me down so I wouldn't break everything in sight… that didn't work out so well for her, since she's so small, and I might have almost knocked her teeth out. She didn't get too mad at me though. She knows how I can be sometimes, I guess."

"That is a very loyal friend you've got there. She's a good girl," Eames said in wonder as he tugged his hooded sweatshirt over his head and proceeded to let his jeans and underwear fall around his ankles.

"She really is. I really don't know why she puts up with me."

Eames stepped into the shower with Arthur, chuckling a little. "Perhaps your good qualities make up for your bad ones."

Arthur pouted because clearly he did not think so and started scrubbing shampoo through his hair. "That's stupid."

"Why do you get so worked up over it anyways?" Eames asked, reaching out to form Arthur's shampoo-frothy hair into a mohawk. "This punk look works for you."

Arthur scoffed as he rinsed the shampoo out and said, "I—I don't know. I guess ever since I was a kid I've been pushed to be the best. I had to get every solo that was offered in my high school orchestra. I had to get that full ride scholarship. It's the same thing now."

"Yeah, I get that, but why?" Eames asked.

…and when Arthur opened his mouth to answer, he realized that he didn't really have one. "I don't… Well, you're a musician. You know why the schooling is important. It helps you get a good position just like any schooling does." He scrubbed his body down with soap to avoid looking at Eames and then rinsed off.

Eames snorted. "I hope you realize that I was a secondary school dropout and spent all of my time busking for tips at the Covent Garden. I was homeless by the time I was seventeen, but I was discovered by Cobb who was overseas visiting his girlfriend, and he asked me to be in a band he was forming, and it wasn't like I had anything better to do, so here I am. It was pure chance that brought me upon my career, that and years of honing my craft. I'm not saying school is unimportant, but the best teacher of music for you _is_ you."

"Thanks for the cryptic advice, Yoda. Help a lot, it will," Arthur replied sarcastically while Eames laid soft kisses along his collarbone.

"I mean it," Eames said softly, making his way down his chest. "I have always played guitar strictly because I loved doing it, and I didn't care if I was homeless or any of that as long as I could play. You should never play if you don't want to or you'll start hating something you care about."

"You're being entirely too sugar-sweet for my tastes," Arthur complained, rather than comment on such a thing... It made him feel unsure and scared, talking about things he _cared about_ , and the last thing he needed was even _less_ consistency in his life. "I was just trying to shower so I could at least make it to _some_ of my classes, you know."

"Oh, really," Eames said before pausing to plant a long kiss on his navel. "I suppose I should stop making moves on you then?" Considering Arthur was already half-hard, he had a feeling that Arthur wasn't about to stop him.

"No, just—just get on with it. Why are you trying to be so gentle? You don't—just…"

Eames glanced up at him, suddenly much less interested in Arthur's prick. "Do you have a problem with me being gentle?"

Arthur exhaled through his nose, clearly thrown off by the question. "You never found any reason to be before," he offered.

Eames raised his eyebrows and rose to his full height. "We haven't known each other long enough for you to know my reasoning for anything if you really think about it. Maybe I just assumed you liked it rough while I'm actually as gentle as a still pond."

"Fuck off," Arthur growled, rolling his eyes. "Don't patronize me, asshole."

"I wasn't," Eames said, but Arthur was done listening to him, choosing instead to bite down into his neck. "Fine," he sighed and started stroking Arthur, slipping a hand around to his backside to ghost his fingertips over his entrance. "Be that way. We don't have to talk about it. Do you intend for me to fuck you bareback or are you going to wait for me to get some protection?"

"I don't care," Arthur panted against his ear.

"That's showing quite a bit of trust in me," Eames said.

"If you had some sort of disease, I'm sure you would've told me so by now," Arthur retaliated, but he was quickly becoming putty in Eames's hand if the way his knees were starting to buckle was any indication.

"What if I didn't know?" Eames asked. "What if I hadn't been tested recently? Did you ever think of that?"

"Why are you trying to stop this?" Arthur whined, punching his chest. "If you want to be such a dick about it then go get your protection and _fuck_ me already! Fuck!"

"Are you trying to make me be mean to you?" Eames asked, throwing his arms out in frustration.

"Just forget it!" Arthur spat, turning away from Eames to change the temperature of the water, most likely to attempt to bring down his hard-on. "You're clearly more interested in asking me stupid fucking questions."

"I just wanted to know!" Eames said, voice straining more than it should have been. "Where the hell do we bloody _stand_? Is this just sex or is it something else? I don't care either way you know, but I'd like to have an idea because I don't bloody know anymore."

"Where is this _coming_ from?" Arthur shouted, and Eames pressed him against the shower wall. Arthur could swear he could hear Eames's heartbeat even through his own back.

"I met your teacher Mal last night," Eames replied as if he'd decided to say something other than what he'd planned to say, not loosening the embrace but softening his tone.

Arthur pushed his troubles to the back of his mind for the moment, responding with, "Wh—what? How did you…"

"Cobb introduced me."

Arthur looked over his shoulder at Eames, skeptical. "You're fucking with me."

"I do mean _that_ Cobb, if that's what you mean. It turns out that they're married. She was gushing about how talented you are while I was at her house."

Arthur wriggled around so that his back was against the wall, mostly so that he could give Eames his look of disbelief with both eyes, and Eames chuckled. "I'm not kidding, I swear!" Eames said. "Your teacher is secretly married to the _famous_ Mr. Dominic Cobb."

Arthur shut off the water. "That… that doesn't make any sense… Why would—I mean, how—what? Mal never even said she was—I mean, they have the same last name, but—"

Eames snagged a fluffy, white towel out from behind the curtain and tossed it in Arthur's face. "It's true. They keep it under wraps so the paparazzi leave her alone. Believe it or not, some famous people _can_ keep secrets."

Arthur hesitated as he stepped over the side of the tub, toweling his hair and then rubbing at his shoulders. "Why… why are you telling me this?"

 _"Keep talking like that and you'll scare him off_. _"_

Eames sighed, mentally smacking himself and grabbing Arthur by the wrists. "Forget about it… I'm sorry I'm acting like a nutter. I was thrown off a little by your 'freak out' last night, and I was worried. When I get worried I tend to try to put things in proverbial boxes, organize it so I don't have anything to panic over."

"It's… it's fine… I'm kind of like that too, I guess," Arthur mumbled, dismissing it. "You didn't even wash your hair."

"I'm just a dirty little fucker, aren't I," Eames said, and leaned in for a long kiss that sent Arthur downwards to sit on the side of the bath. The cold shower had failed to completely quell his erection, so Eames released his mouth to lean over and take care of it.

"I don't— _nn_ —I don't get you," Arthur whimpered, planting a hand on the faucet to keep from falling into the tub while simultaneously widening the space between his legs. "One minute you're all cryptic and serious, and the next you're— _Ohh_!"

Clearly, Arthur no longer cared, hips bucking as he nearly choked Eames.

Maybe it _was_ just sex for Arthur, Eames thought. He'd been an idiot to try and tempt him into a confession just because he damn sure knew he himself wasn't about to make one. He couldn't screw up whatever it was they were doing…

…he'd miss _them_ too much…

…but then, what would they do when these short weeks were over and Eames inevitably had to get back on the road? Cobb had already been planning on heading back into the studio with the rest of the band to start recording their next album, and after that they would tour again, and Saito was recommending Eames take a guest spot on a popular medical drama if he wanted to get an acting career going (and he certainly didn't have any complaints about _that_ ) and…

Arthur… Arthur would finish his schooling. Eames was sure that from there he'd most likely wind up in a popular orchestra and move onto travelling with his own 'band'.

There was no _them_.

The whole spiel about Mal had been wishful thinking on his part, waiting for Arthur to go, 'oh, hey, we could do that.' What the fuck was wrong with him? He'd only known Arthur for a few days!

Arthur yelped, coming down Eames's throat suddenly. Eames wasn't quite prepared and nearly gagged on it. Arthur fell into the tub even though he'd been holding on as soon as the waves of pleasure faded.

Eames would have thought it hilarious except he was currently in the middle of realizing that these moments weren't going to last.

How did this boy go and make him crazy in just a couple of days?

"Are you all right? You didn't bruise your tailbone, did you?" Eames asked, hoisting Arthur out of the basin of the bath.

"I—I'm fine, I'm—"

Both of them seemed to notice the knocking on the door simultaneously.

"Ah… uh…" Arthur stammered, stumbling over Eames's clothes as he made his way out of the bathroom, grabbing a robe off of the hook on the door. "Coming! I'm coming!"

"You already did that," Eames said, and since Arthur was too far across the room to hit him, he settled with a bruising glare instead.

"Stay here!" he hissed and slammed the bedroom door on him. "Jackass."

Of course, it was Ariadne pounding on the door with a carrier of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a book bag slouched over her shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked when he opened the door, and it was eerily reminiscent of the night before when he'd said it to Eames, expecting Ariadne instead.

"When you didn't show up for class this morning, I figured you had another one of your 'freak outs' so I brought some coffee. I called first, for the record, but you didn't answer your phone."

She knew him so well.

"You skipped class to bring me coffee."

"What are friends for?"

"Your class was cancelled, wasn't it."

"Yes it was. Let me in."

He knew her pretty well too.

"Uh… now's not really… not really a good time," Arthur said, clutching his robe more tightly over his chest.

"Why?" Ariadne asked. "It's not like I haven't seen you straight out of the shower before. Come on, Arthur, we've known each other since we were like… six. We're like brother and sister for God's sakes. Stop being so modest."

Arthur frowned and glanced over his shoulder before he could stop himself.

"Do you… have company?" Ariadne asked suspiciously, standing on her tiptoes to try and see over his shoulder. "You never have company. I'm the only person who comes here."

"I don't—there's no one here. I was just going to get dressed and head to class."

"You're lying," Ariadne said, shoving her way in, and Arthur hated the fact that he was so slender. He'd been neglecting his morning workouts too, since he met Eames…

…but really, that had only been a few days, hadn't it?

What the fuck was happening to him?

"I'm not lying," Arthur stammered.

"Then where'd this guitar come from?" Ariadne asked, indicating the case that Eames had left by the door when he'd come in to find Arthur in one of his fits. "You don't play guitar now, do you?" Unabashedly she popped the locks and opened it. "Whoa! This is… this looks just like Eames's acoustic! So cool! I hope this is a gift for me!"

Arthur grabbed one of the cups of coffee out of the carrier. "It's _not_. I just… I found it."

"Then I can have it?"

"No! I'm going to get it back to its original owner."

"Who is _here_ , right?" Ariadne smirked. "Who is it?... and how much does he want for this _amazing_ guitar?"

"You can't even _play_ guitar," Arthur said flatly, also choosing to avoid the question.

"I could learn."

"Ariadne—"

"Seriously, you could not have just _found_ this guitar… Oh, man, what if it actually belongs to Eames? I heard a rumor that he was still in town. Then I could cross two Radical Notion members off of my list of people to meet before I die. I mean, yeah, I didn't actually get to _talk_ to Dom Cobb, but—"

Arthur really wished he wasn't such a terrible liar because even _he_ could feel the guilty look spreading across his face when she turned to look at him. He really wanted to dig a hole, crawl into it, and bury himself to get away from her gaze.

"Arthur?" she questioned, and he nonchalantly sipped at his coffee while simultaneously avoiding eye contact. "Arthur, where did you really get this guitar?"

"Ah—"

"Did you… did you go on a rampage and _steal_ it? I know your 'freak outs' have been dramatic before, but you—you actually _stole_ —"

"I didn't steal anything!" Arthur interrupted, setting down his coffee. "I didn't steal it, okay? It's… It's a little more complicated than that."

"Well," Ariadne said, crossing her arms over her chest and rising to her full height, and really, she shouldn't have looked so intimidating at only five feet tall, "spill."

Damned Ariadne. It was all her fault he was even in this mess, making him go to that concert.

What the fuck was he supposed to say? He was at a complete loss, and he was just wishing for some kind of help. Clearly his body hadn't been the one to go to when it came to controlling situations lately, and he had a bad feeling it wasn't about to be reliable now. He wished he'd at least been _dressed_. It might have made the moment at least _slightly_ less awkward.

"Arthur, tell me. I'm your best friend. You can tell me anything."

"Ah… well, uh…"

"I might be able to explain a few things," Eames said as he exited the bedroom.

Ariadne's eyes went as wide as saucers, and Arthur was sure his face was similar.

"Ah… Ariadne, this is Eames," Arthur said, gesturing to the man as he came up to his side. He was grateful that Eames had put his clothes back on and dried his hair before deciding to make an appearance.

…and then Ariadne fainted.

"Well, fuck, that didn't go too well, did it?" Eames said.

Arthur glared at him.


	6. Track Six: You Don't Have To Mean It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Six: You Don't Have To Mean It

Eames hoisted Ariadne up onto the couch while Arthur went and got a cool cloth for her head. Thankfully, she didn't appear to have any injuries since Arthur's floor was carpeted, but he had a feeling she'd have a pretty impressive bump on the back of her head later.

She was starting to rouse by the time Arthur placed the cloth on her forehead.

"Hey," Arthur said softly. "Don't move just yet, okay? You fainted."

"Arth—Arthur," she stammered, pointing over his shoulder at Eames. "What the fuck—you… am I _dreaming_ right now?"

"Ah… no…" Arthur said and didn't stop her when she pushed herself up to a sitting position anyway.

"This—you're not some kind of impersonator, are you?" Ariadne asked, and apparently she didn't care that Arthur was there anymore.

"I am not," Eames replied. "Let me explain."

"Okay," Ariadne said, and she appeared to be fighting back a rather impressive smile and the chance to bounce.

Arthur opened his mouth to object because he didn't exactly want his reputation to just be _destroyed_ by Eames, but Eames appeared to have come up with something else to say rather than 'I met him after the concert and we've been fucking like rabbits ever since'.

"See," Eames said, sitting on Arthur's coffee table. "I was out on the town last night, in disguise of course, just trying to get some time in public without being mobbed by fans. I thought that I got recognized though while I was in a coffee shop, and I ran out. It turns out it was just a false alarm because no one followed me, but I left my guitar in the coffee shop, and your friend here saw me leave without it. My contact information is in there—sans my name, of course, so he called me and let me know that he had it, and I showed up this morning to come and get it. I ah… didn't mean to interrupt him during his shower, but, well, he probably thought that I was you."

"…Oh…" Ariadne said. " _Oh_. This… This is so _cool_!"

Apparently, she couldn't hold it in anymore. She flung her arms around Eames's shoulders, squealing girlishly, "Oh my God! This is the coolest thing ever! I'm like… you guys' _biggest_ fan! I have all of your albums and DVDs and _everything_!"

"Thank you, thank you," Eames chuckled. "You flatter me, really."

"O.M.G., Arthur, we can't go to school _now_. This is fucking _Eames_ from Radical Notion! Oh, please, please, Mr. Eames, you've got to stay and tell us stories about touring and the other band mates. You've _got_ to play us a song. Oh please, oh please, oh _please_."

"Ariadne, I'm sure Eames has other things to do—" Arthur tried, but Eames interrupted by lifting his hand.

"No, no, it's all right. I'm always willing to do a few things for a fan, but I do have to ask you not to tell anyone else about this, all right?"

"I won't tell a soul," Ariadne said. "Scout's honor."

"You can't have scout's honor! You're not a scout!" Arthur complained. "You never were!"

"Shut up, Arthur!" Ariadne shouted and then pulled Eames down to sit next to her on the couch. "I'm sorry. My friend doesn't understand how _amazing_ this is. It's actually a miracle that he decided to be nice enough to call you. He doesn't like being nice to people."

"Don't tell him that," Arthur sniped.

Ariadne ignored him, taking both of Eames's hands in her tiny hands. "These are the hands of a _god_ , I swear. No one plays quite like you do. I'm just… I'm so honored to be in your presence. Like, you can't even _imagine_ how high I am flying just off of pure adrenaline right now. I've dreamed about this kind of stuff happening, but I never thought I'd actually—Oh, this is so _cool_! I—wow, just wow."

Arthur ran his hand through his hair, clearly embarrassed by her gushing. "I think I'll just… go put some clothes on and leave you to it then. Have fun with all that."

He left them in the living room, shutting the bedroom door behind him and just leaning against it for a long moment. It was quiet in his bedroom, almost eerily still.

"What am I _doing_?" he mumbled and dropped his robe to the floor. He dug out a pair of navy slacks and a pale blue button-down from his dresser, along with a clean pair of underwear. As he was dressing, he turned to see Eames's sunglasses and hat shoved up against the headboard of his bed, half smashed between two pillows. The blankets were still tossed about haphazardly, and Arthur could swear he could still see the other man's imprint in the sheets. He could definitely see the speckles of dirt that dusted the end of the bed where Eames had slept in his shoes. A slight tilt of his head reminded him that the plastic cup Eames had used for an ashtray on his first day there was still sitting with the ashes inside on his bedside table. Arthur hadn't even _thought_ of throwing it away.

The room even _smelled_ like Eames, a heady scent of sweat and sleep, a hint of cologne that he'd apparently worn so long he smelled like it even when he wasn't wearing any. Arthur couldn't help but just stand there for along moment, letting the smell swirl around him. He couldn't remember his room ever having a smell before Eames.

"This is too much," he sighed, forcing himself to move into the bathroom to slick back his hair.

After all, what the fuck had Eames been intending earlier when he'd been talking so… _crazy_? He'd wanted to know where they stood, whether it was just sex, wanted to know if Arthur trusted him… Why the hell would he be asking him those things after a few days of fucking around? In fact, how _dare_ he ask him such things? _Eames_ was the one spouting lies at Arthur, the one playing with him by calling him beautiful and talented and acting like he genuinely liked Arthur. Arthur wasn't an idiot. He knew he couldn't _possibly_ mean any of that…

…So why did he have to go and ask those questions and make him feel worse about that?

The sudden sharp pain in Arthur's chest was completely unexpected, and for a moment he had to grip the sink and wait for it to subside. "What the… What's wrong with me?" he asked his reflection but of course it didn't have an answer.

He knew it had been a mistake to give into his weakness.

Weakness always led to failure…

…and he felt like he was most definitely failing now. He had gotten too comfortable, and now his composure was in tatters and Eames was haunting every corner of his mind and he was still suffering from the same problems in his playing as he had been and now people knew that Arthur knew Eames and that meant that it was only a matter of time before the _wrong_ person found out, and then…

Arthur was completely screwed.

He was about to lose a scholarship, a future in a symphony orchestra, and any kind of contact with his family (meaning any amount of money he might have been living off of in the past). One word of him being in a homosexual scandal with a rock star would absolutely _devastate_ the reputation he'd been working very hard to build.

Why the fuck had he given in? He put his whole life on the line for one stupid night of passion, _and_ he'd continued to do so simply because it fucking felt good. He used to be so good at focusing on the task at hand and not getting distracted by pleasures of the flesh. Now he was completely caught up in the ridiculous moments of passion. Sure, it pleased him when they were together, whether they were fucking or talking or playing music, but it didn't used to be about what _he_ wanted. When had he become so _selfish_?

The worst part was Ariadne was _there_. It wasn't like Arthur could come storming out of his room and demand that Eames get out of his life so he could regain some semblance of control over it while she was sitting there gushing about his life. It was going to be damned hard to get her to keep her mouth shut about seeing Eames at all. He couldn't even _imagine_ the difficulty it would be to silence her if she found out her best friend had been sleeping with him. Therefore, he couldn't say a fucking thing, and Ariadne surely wasn't going to leave before Eames did.

So… that meant he'd have to go see him again to tell him all of these things, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to. Time seemed to crumble his resolve as of recently.

Arthur went silently back into the front room to find Eames sitting with his guitar in his lap and Ariadne filming it on her iPhone.

"Ah… this is a new song, and for the record, I'm not much of a singer. Plus, Cobb hasn't quite finished it yet, so it's actually right terrible."

…and then he started to play, and Arthur found that it wasn't just time that was crumbling his resolve.

That tune…

It was nearly identical to the heartbreaking, pathetic display of sadness Arthur had wailed out on his violin that night in Eames's hotel room. It was less rough and less wailing but the _feel_ of it was absolutely the same, every single ounce of every note completely and purely Arthur.

Was this song about _him_?

"Ah—oh, well," Eames stopped when he botched a note three times in a row. "That's all I've got right now. I guarantee you that when I see Cobb next he'll have some kind of masterpiece prepared."

"That's so beautiful," Ariadne enthused, clearly starstruck. "Arthur, didn't you think—"

Both of them stared at him silently, and it was only afterwards that Arthur realized that he had tears rolling down his face.

"Arthur?" Eames asked quietly.

"I… I have to go…" Arthur said, grabbed his violin case, and was out the door before either of them could even make a move to follow him.

* * *

Arthur went to class because there was really nowhere else he could go that Ariadne wouldn't inevitably find him and demand an explanation. He just needed a little bit of time to get his thoughts together so he could at least come up with a semi-not-pathetic excuse for his little breakdown over a stupid _song_. She wouldn't cause a scene if he was in class, especially since she didn't take the same classes he did (he was never more thankful that she was an architecture major), and the rest of the class generally left him alone for fear he might bruise them with his malicious words. He was sure he was giving off the impression that he wanted to be left alone without even looking at them. He hunched there in his desk and stared at the tabletop, not caring what the teacher was lecturing about since he hadn't brought any of his books or school supplies with him anyway.

Maybe Eames had been wrong, Arthur decided, at least when it came to his music. He'd been perfectly good at playing before Eames came along and claimed that he was boring. Sure, Mal had been particularly complimentary when he'd played the way Eames had suggested, and sure he had felt more joy in playing when it felt like self-exploration than an assignment, but… well, his way was entirely too inconsistent for Arthur's taste. Besides, self-exploration was far too dangerous. Letting his weaknesses show was the absolute best way to have them exploited, and he didn't want that.

He hadn't _had_ any weaknesses that he'd been aware of until Eames came along. Now they were popping up all over the place.

When he got to his afternoon orchestra practice, he played every note in time with the other violinists perfectly and yet felt absolutely nothing. He then proceeded to get into an argument with the second chair viola player and stormed out. By the time the door to the auditorium had shut behind him, he couldn't even remember what he'd been so upset about, couldn't even remember a thing that she had said (or what he had said for that matter), but he'd gone and made her cry. It didn't matter.

He feared Eames would still be at his apartment, so instead of going back he drove to Starkey's and proceeded to start getting gloriously drunk.

He didn't feel a thing.

 _It's better this way_ , Arthur thought as he stared down into his fifth glass at his reflection in the liquid. _It's safer this way_.

It didn't take him long until he was as drunk as he intended, and then he decided he might as well keep going since he was on a roll, and it wasn't like anyone was trying to stop him or that he had anything else to spend his time or money on.

It wasn't until after his tenth beer that he came to the realization that he was there drinking because he was absolutely _terrified_ , and he didn't even know why.

Well, no… that wasn't entirely true, but he certainly wasn't admitting to himself why he was so afraid. Facing Eames was a prospect he wasn't looking forward to, and he knew _why_ , but…

The bartender, Steve, tapped Arthur on the top of the head when he'd been staring down at the counter for a bit longer than necessary. "Don't you think you've had enough?" he asked.

"Fuck you," Arthur growled, holding onto the 'f' for dear life and then finished off his sentence with another swig from his drink.

"Well, I'm not letting you drive out of here like this, Arthur. Come on, give me your keys."

"Who th' fuck said I was even goin' anywhere?" Arthur asked. "Fuck off."

Steve sighed, rolling his eyes, and Arthur momentarily thought that cracking his glass over the top of his head would be nice, but he had a bad feeling his reflexes weren't quite in the state to make the move (that and it'd probably be a regrettable move once he sobered up).

After a while, he forgot to be mad at Steve, since Steve was the only one close enough to talk to. "Hey," he said, waving him over. "Hey… Hey, Steve."

Steve sighed and made his way over, leaning on the bar to listen with a regrettable expression, like Arthur was wasting his time. Arthur momentarily was distracted by the way one of his dreadlocks fell over his eyebrow, and then by the way someone was singing karaoke off-key behind him. "What?"

"You ever been in love?" Arthur asked.

Steve blinked. "Ah… yeah. I'm engaged to my girlfriend Stella, remember?"

"Oh. Um. How… How'd you _know_?"

"Know what?"

"That Stella was… y'know… the _one_?"

"You think you might be in love with someone, Artie?"

"Don't—call me that… Don't. I don't like it, but um… I don't know."

"It's Ariadne, isn't it."

Arthur huffed. "Why's everybody—why they gotta say that all the time? No, I don't—I would never be into her. She's my best friend, but I don't feel that way 'bout her, man. Come on…"

"Well, she's the only person you hang out with," Steve replied with a shrug. "What was I supposed to think? I mean, Ariadne's a really pretty girl, and she's smart too, and she actually puts up with you—"

"I'm gay," Arthur replied suddenly.

That threw Steve off for the longest five seconds of Arthur's life. "Whoa, what?" he said.

Arthur _really_ wished he'd gone and buried himself in that hole like he'd wanted to earlier, but he couldn't really go back on it now. "You're the only person I've told," he said instead, shame creeping up the back of his neck.

"O—okay…" Steve said hesitantly and looked around at the mostly empty bar. "Why tell me?"

"I needed to tell someone," Arthur said pathetically. "I can't tell people I'm really close to anything because then I'll just fuck everything up…"

…and then he started to drunkenly cry. He'd been told by Ariadne that he tended to start the waterworks when he was wasted (since he usually only got so on very bad days), but he still felt like he was in the absolute worst place in existence and just wished that he was dead or at least _mute_. Fuck, why did he say that, he wondered as he wiped at his tears clumsily, his wrist not seeming to find his face quite where he thought it was, because he never cried in public.

"Hey, man, it's okay," Steve said, patting his shoulder. "I ain't gonna judge you or nothing like that. I've got a cousin who's gay, and he's awesome. I'm all about gay rights and all that."

"Fuck, I hate myself," Arthur whimpered, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and sniffing ungracefully loud. "Why can't things just be like they used t'be? It sucks! _I_ suck!"

"Hey, dude, if this is about telling your folks or whatever—"

"S'not about that," Arthur blubbered. "I'll never tell them… but I… I didn't—I was just fine with what I was doing, and then I went and did something so dumb, and now I don't know how to get myself out of it… I'm so scared… and I don't know what to do…"

"What'd you do that's so bad, huh? You don't have an STD or something, do you?"

Arthur shook his head. "No… no, but I… I like somebody a lot, and I can't… I _can't_ because I know it won't work, and no matter how hard I try t' remind myself that I'm being so goddamned stupid, I can't stop. It's like he's got some kinda control over me, and I can't shake it. I shouldn't even be able to like someone so much after only knowing him for a few days— _fuck_ , I'm so fucking _stupid_!"

"Aw, man… I don't… I don't know what to—" he cut himself off, and Arthur wondered why until he felt a small hand on his shoulder.

"Arthur? Arthur, hey, it's me," Ariadne said, shaking him gently as if he was asleep and not in pieces. "Come on… you're really drunk. Let's get you out of here, okay?"

Arthur didn't have any fight left in him, so he stumbled off of his stool and slumped along next to her, holding onto her for balance. "I've been looking for you _all day_ , you know," Ariadne explained as they made their way out to the parking lot.

As soon as the cool air hit Arthur's face, he hurled into the bushes until he was sure he would pass out from lack of air, but gradually the nausea subsided, leaving him with a hollow pain throughout his whole body.

"Feel any better?" Ariadne asked, still clutching to his arm with one hand to keep him from falling over into his own sick.

"No…" Arthur moaned, frowning at the ground. "I'm sorry…"

"It's fine," she said, pulling him upright again and slinging his arm around her neck. "What's up with you, Arthur? You have another 'freak out'? You weren't even practicing."

"My violin's still inside," Arthur said pathetically.

"I'll go back and get it once we get in the car. Arthur, what happened? Did that song really have that much of an effect on you or—like, did your grandmother die or something? You've never acted like this before."

"I'm just stressed out," Arthur explained, suddenly exhausted. "What happened after I left?"

"I went looking for you," Ariadne replied flatly. "I told you I've been looking for you all day."

"And Eames?"

"He's in the car."

Arthur staggered, nearly sending them both toppling to the ground. "What?" he managed.

"He said he felt like he caused you to get upset, so he decided to help me find you. We've been talking about so much stuff, Arthur, and he's even cooler than I thought he was. He said he might even be able to get me backstage for the S.O.S. thing. How cool is that?"

Arthur groaned because he could see Eames now, slouched in the passenger seat of Ariadne's car with a cigarette burning from between his fingers. "I can't believe you've been dragging him around with you. What if the paparazzi got a picture of you?"

"You think I'd be _bothered_ by that?" Ariadne snorted, pulling open the door to the backseat. "Sit down. I'll be right back. If you need to hurl again, please open the door and do it on the asphalt."

Arthur made a noise to show her that he understood but didn't have to like it, and then she went strolling back to the bar.

"Steve's gonna tell her all the things I said," Arthur said, pressing his forehead to the back of Eames's seat. "Fuck…"

"What did I do to upset you?" Eames asked, adjusting himself so that he could look over the shoulder of the seat at Arthur. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Arthur leaned back from the cushion to make eye contact with Eames, too drunk to care that his eyes were still wet and that his mouth tasted like vomit. "You didn't do anything. It's all my fault," Arthur said.

"You ran out when I played that song. Clearly it was something I did," Eames said, apparently refusing to believe that he didn't have a part in Arthur's sudden breakdown, and really it wasn't like he _didn't._

Arthur swallowed thickly before asking, "That song… was it… was it about me?"

"Well, ah—Cobb writes the words, so I'm assuming it's about Mal or—"

"No… not the words. The tune… the tune sounded like that song I played that night. You know what I'm talking about…"

"I… suppose you could say I was inspired by it, yes. I told you that I thought it was beautiful. I did change it up though—I mean, I didn't want to steal anything from you, and naturally I'd have to play it differently on the guitar."

Arthur wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand and sniffled. "I can't keep doing this…" he said weakly.

"Doing what, darling?" Eames asked, but by the look on his face he had an idea.

" _This_ …" Arthur said, snorting bitterly. "It's… It's getting too serious, and it's only been a couple of days, and I can't just… It's fucking up everything. I'm turning into a nervous wreck, and I'm always distracted by thoughts of you and wondering what's going on with _us_ , even though I know. You really fucked with me when you started asking me those questions this morning. It was like you were mocking me…"

" _Mocking_ you? How the bloody hell was I mocking you?" Eames asked.

Arthur looked away from him, deciding that the few cars in the parking lot in the fading twilight were much easier to stare at as he admitted, barely above a whisper, "I… I know you don't mean all that stuff you said about me."

"What stuff are you referring to?" Eames asked, going nearly as quiet as Arthur.

"You know… the stuff—the stuff about me being beautiful and being a great singer and being the best violinist in the world, all those pet names and smiles and sweet things… You're just saying that because I'm sleeping with you. When these few weeks are over, you'll run off and do the same thing to other guys, and I'll never see you again…"

There was that pain in Arthur's heart again, only this time it was magnified twentyfold.

"Do you… Do you _really_ think that low of me, Arthur?" Eames asked, and the hurt in his voice was strong enough to add another ton onto the weight of his grief. "I'm insulted."

"W—well, I…"

"Arthur. Look at me."

Arthur did, and he could feel his lip trembling as fresh tears sprang forth to his eyes. "What?" he asked, voice breaking.

"I never lied to you," Eames said sternly. " _Never_."

Arthur sniffed again. "How do I know you're not lying now—"

"I think I might love you," Eames interrupted.

Arthur's mouth clamped shut.

"I know…" Eames said when all he got was a blank stare from Arthur. "I know it's _barmy_ , absolutely, but I am being completely honest here when I tell you that I've never felt the way I do about you. Maybe it's because you're a _twat_ , maybe it's because you're so indescribably fantastic at everything you set your mind to, maybe it's the way I feel like you save just one smile for me even when you have a shitty day, I don't know, and… yes, I know it's only been a few days, and it sounds bloody ridiculous, but—"

Arthur continued to stare, so Eames took a moment to gather his thoughts, glancing around to see if Ariadne was returning. She wasn't, so clearly she must have been talking to this Steve guy Arthur had mentioned.

He exhaled. "You said that I just needed to get to know you better, and then I'd stop liking you, but I've got to tell you, darling, I think I know you better than you do… and I still like everything about you, even the right terrible parts… This morning I—I really thought it was going to fall apart because I could tell you were trying to find reasons to hate me, so I thought I'd go ahead and give you a reason. I'm too forward with my feelings, and I'm too famous, and if you mean it when you say you can't do this, stop it for those reasons and not because you think you're not as fucking gorgeous as you actually are."

Arthur didn't care that they were in Ariadne's car or that they were in public where people could quite possibly see them. He didn't care that he was drunk and tasted of vomit and tears and that he was probably and ugly mess because of it. He didn't care that the position was awkward.

He leaned in and kissed Eames because he just couldn't help himself.

He was weak, and he knew it, but he'd come to the conclusion that there was really no helping it now. He'd been ensnared in Eames's web, and he could either struggle until he got more tangled or just sit back and allow himself to be eaten. Either way, he wasn't going to escape.

Eames's tongue slipped over Arthur's, and Arthur felt his hand come up to rest with his thumb just behind his ear, pulling Arthur deeper into the kiss as if he couldn't get enough of tasting him, and Eames was right. This _was_ crazy.

…and he was inclined to agree with everything else Eames had said too.

He whimpered into Eames's lips and pulled away for air before diving back in, and he didn't care that there were tears on his face. The only thing he cared about was Eames and his mouth and his hands clutching each side of his face, and if there hadn't been a seat between the two of them, Arthur was sure things would be spiraling more and more out of control…

…but most definitely this kiss was not like their previous ones. This kiss was not like any kiss Arthur had experienced (and admittedly, he hadn't experienced all that many). This kiss was _emotional_. It was as if Arthur could taste every single one of Eames's feelings and that Eames could do the same, like they were reading each other with their tongues somehow. It was absolutely the most glorious feeling Arthur had ever felt, and he couldn't believe he'd been missing out on such a magnificent spark of feeling. It made him want to sing and play music into all hours of the night, to smell and hear and see things like he hadn't in the past, to touch and feel Eames as if he were someone new because he was. The kiss was different because the dynamic had shifted and Arthur regretted every ounce of hesitation on his part.

He'd been told once that the best way to learn how to swim was to jump right in.

He was pretty sure this qualified as 'jumping in', but he wasn't worried. All the fears and turmoil had been shoved to the side because all that mattered to him was this exact moment.

He never wanted it to end, but eventually he had to break for air again, and this time they were both just gasping into each other's mouths as if they could share the same oxygen and never be separated by anything…

…and Arthur could swear that the whole world had become more colorful, like he'd stepped out of Kansas into the land of Oz, and everything was rich and beautiful and perfect in the cheesiest, most wonderful way…

The neon sign of Starkey's was beautiful and green.

The faded asphalt looked nearly purple, the lines gleaming bright white and yellow.

The sky was a deep pink, red, orange, and violet, blinking stars glittering as bright as sunlight.

Ariadne was as red as a lobster.

…wait, Ariadne?

Arthur made eye contact with her, but she just continued to stare slack-jawed from the driver's side window, violin case still clutched tightly in both hands.

"Oh, my, seems we forgot about her, yeah?" Eames asked against the skin of Arthur's cheek.

All Arthur could think to say was, "seems so…"

"What. The. Fuck?" Ariadne shouted.

"Um…" Arthur said as she flung open the door. "I can explain this. I'm pretty sure I can explain this."

"I suppose we could start off with a simple, yet effective 'surprise!' declaration, correct? That would suffice, wouldn't it?" Eames offered, and really how could he tease at a time like this?

"You—and—and _you_ —I… What? Seriously, _what_?" Ariadne eloquently replied, looking from one man to the other while possibly doing some sort of equation in her head to figure out what kind of alternate universe she'd just stepped into.

"Look, if you just drive us back to Arthur's, I'll explain everything to you, savvy?" Eames offered. "I'm sorry we haven't been completely honest with you, but staying here too long is a bit dangerous for all of us."

"I… I just… O—okay," Ariadne said, sitting in her seat and handing over the violin case.

Arthur sank back into the backseat, swallowing thickly, and oddly enough he still couldn't help but smile even though they'd been caught. He figured once the pheromones and alcohol wore off he'd realize the seriousness of the situation but for now…

…well, for now, he was perfectly content with watching the blush on both Ariadne _and_ Eames's necks.


	7. Track Seven: The First Time We Fall in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Seven: The First Time We Fall in Love

"So… what you're telling me is that you guys met at the concert, and now you're… lovers or something?" Ariadne asked from her spot on the couch, looking up at the two men as if they were her parents explaining the birds and the bees. Her knees were pressed together, her hands clutched on top of them, and her eyes were large and unbelieving.

"S—sort of," Arthur said sheepishly. He couldn't help but feel embarrassed even alluding to his sex life to Ariadne. "It just kind of… happened."

"—but it worked out pretty well because we actually kind of… well… we actually really like each other so, go figure," Eames added, shrugging.

"I just… this is so much to take in… Of all the people in the world to be dating a rock star, I never would have thought—"

"It was… a bit of a shock for me too," Arthur admitted, nervously wringing his hands, "and I know you think that I'm bullshitting you and this is some big joke, but it's not… I ah… well…"

"I think Arthur's trying to dance around the fact that we've boned," Eames said with a smirk. Arthur whirled on him, face surely going beet red.

"Subtle, Eames," Arthur spat. Eames pecked him on the lips in response. Arthur rolled his eyes and looked back to Ariadne. "Look, I—I'm sorry that I didn't tell you, but… I mean, first of all, I didn't even know how to say it and make you even believe me, and then there's the fact that I didn't really want _anyone_ to know. I mean, he's _famous_ and all that, after all, and I didn't really think it was going to go this far, honestly…"

"I'm pretty sure that neither of us did, darling," Eames said.

Arthur appreciated the effort, but Eames was failing spectacularly at making the moment less awkward. He couldn't believe how easily he was making him blush.

"He calls you 'darling'?" Ariadne asked and bit down on her bottom lip. Arthur recognized it as the face she made whenever she'd witnessed the cutest thing she'd ever witnessed. It only made Arthur feel more flustered.

" _Any_ way…" Arthur said, taking a seat next to her and taking her hand. "I need you to _promise_ me that you won't tell anyone about this. You can't tell a _soul_ , and I mean this, Ariadne. If this got out, there would be absolute chaos, and I'd rather that not happen. We've got to protect ourselves."

"Well, yeah," Ariadne said, "I mean no one even knows that you're _gay_ , Eames. How long were you planning on keeping that a secret?"

"As long as physically possible, or at least until the world is a little more accepting. Surprisingly, it's starting to get there somehow, but I'm not going to open that can of worms unless I have to," Eames explained, flopping down next to Arthur. "It's a little too _scandalous_ for my tastes, and I'd rather avoid that particular spotlight."

"Me too," Arthur agreed, "which is why you can't tell _anyone_ … and by _anyone_ I mean _**anyone**_. You can't tell your friends, your family, definitely not _my_ family, you can't tell your teachers or the stranger on the bus. I'm putting my faith in you, Ariadne. You're my best friend in the whole world, and I'm _counting_ on you."

"I swear I won't tell anyone, Arthur," Ariadne said, smiling. "As cool as this is, I would never compromise your safety or privacy just to gush about something that's not actually any of my business. I don't want to screw up your relationship. I mean… Arthur… you can't _possibly_ know how happy it makes me to see _you_ happy."

"Really?" Arthur marveled.

"Of _course_ , Arthur! The best friend thing goes both ways, after all. For a long time I'd started to suspect you'd never find anyone, and that made me really sad. To know you've got someone and you really like that person, regardless of whether they're male or female, and regardless of whether their average or famous, I'm _really_ happy."

Arthur should have expected it, being that he'd known Ariadne for practically his whole life… and yet, he was not only surprised by it but completely _touched_.

"I hope your super-hot-super-famous new boyfriend will at least autograph some of my stuff though," Ariadne said, winking…

…and Arthur threw his arms around her neck and just hugged her for a long time.

"Thank you… Ariadne…" he sighed into her shoulder.

"Don't thank me, you nerd," she giggled and pressed a kiss to his cheek before releasing him. "We've got to stick together after all."

"I wish I'd had a friend like you when I was younger," Eames said, resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder. "Seriously, how is it possible that someone as sweet as you exists?"

Ariadne wriggled from where she was sitting, charmed and overexcited. Arthur wondered how long it would take for Ariadne to stop fawning and just talk to Eames like a normal person. It would quite possibly be never… Oh, well… At least Ariadne wasn't obnoxious when she did it.

Eames chuckled from his spot against Arthur's back, and the warmth that flooded through him at the sound of the laugh was surprisingly nice. He had to make an effort to not lean back into the feeling.

* * *

After Ariadne left, Arthur practiced his music for two hours without any issue. Eames lingered in other rooms, watching, waiting for Arthur to hit that sour note and throw a fit, but with relief for both of them it never happened. Eames fixed himself some dinner of cold cereal and milk and sat and watched until the clock chimed ten.

Arthur was just finishing the last note when Eames settled a hand on the back of Arthur's neck. He knelt down close to his ear and whispered, "Come to bed."

"…but I'm not tired yet," Arthur replied, smirking.

"Exactly," Eames said, tugging him out of his chair by hooking his hands under his armpits. "I've got some ideas to help wear you out."

Arthur wriggled his way out of Eames's grip. "Go, _go_ back there, and I will join you in a second, all right? I've just got to put this stuff away and get my books together for class tomorrow."

"So studious," Eames said, giving him three quick kisses before strolling off into the bedroom, tugging his sweatshirt over his head in the process. "If' I'm gone in the morning, love, don't take it personal," he called out. "I've got to get out of here before daylight and let Saito know I'm not being held prisoner by some insane fans. I also would quite like a fresh pair of clothes."

"Do what you have to do," Arthur replied, locking his case before stepping over it to grab his backpack out of the corner and change his books out.

When he paced into the bedroom, Eames was already lounging on the bed completely nude, and Arthur blushed awkwardly and went into the bathroom. After he shut the door he took a moment just to look at himself in the mirror.

"Ugh…" He grumbled. "I look so shitty…"

Had he really looked that bad the whole time? He ducked his head under the sink and washed out all of the gel, toweled his hair mostly dry, washed his face, and was in the middle of brushing his teeth when Eames came in.

"What are you even doing?" Eames chuckled.

Arthur spit into the sink. "I was just ah…"

Eames wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and hummed into the back of his neck. "You don't have to make such an effort for me."

"I didn't say that—" Arthur stammered but from the sound of his voice he came to the realization that he was nervous out of his mind.

This was going to be different than before, and he didn't know how to respond to that fact. After the way he'd felt that morning, he had never expected the evening to turn out this way, and now he was terrified that he was going to royally fuck up.

It was as Eames heard all of this without Arthur saying a word because he took him by the wrists and led him back into the room. "Don't be afraid of me," he said, smiling. "You're going to like this, I promise."

"I'm not _afraid_ ," Arthur tried to say, though he'd admitted that much to himself just moments ago, and he was still just as bad a liar as he always had been.

"It's not like I've ever done things this way either, you know," Eames said, slowly loosing the buttons on Arthur's shirt.

"You—you haven't?"

"No," Eames said, pulling Arthur's belt from its loops, "but I'm happy I'm doing this with you."

"You act like we've never had sex before," Arthur mumbled.

"Surely you and I both are aware of the fact that this isn't just sex," Eames replied, standing to his full height when Arthur's trousers fell around his ankles. "Don't be scared. It's not going to be bad. Just trust me, all right?"

Arthur swallowed heavily, feeling so small and so young before him now. He felt like he was a virgin again, and he was awkward and embarrassed by it. Still, he said, "I… I trust you."

"Come here," Eames said, pulling Arthur to him and setting his mouth in line with Arthur's, hesitating momentarily before pressing a kiss there. He took his time deepening the kiss, and Arthur let him take the lead, hands curling around the back of his neck. He'd never been kissed so sweetly, and it immediately started to relax him. He began to think that Eames was right about there being nothing to be afraid of…

Eames mouthed down Arthur's neck, but he didn't bite or scrape his teeth like he had in the past. He just layered him with feather light kisses, fingers tickling his skin but never harshly gripping at him, and Arthur felt heat radiating off of himself, building in strength the further down Eames would go.

"You don't have to be so gentle," Arthur whispered. "I'm not going to break."

"I'm doing this on purpose," Eames said, voice rumbling against Arthur's abdomen. "I want to show you how precious you are to me, and I'm always careful with those things… Lay down, Arthur, and just let me…" he trailed off as Arthur did as he was told, taking deep breaths as if he was trying to remain calm.

"Tell me what you want," Eames said, crawling on top of him and staring deep into his eyes. The dim lamplight cast a warm glow against the side of Eames's face, and Arthur was momentarily mesmerized by it.

"Just you," Arthur choked out, and his eyes fluttered closed and his head tilted back as Eames pressed a kiss to his Adam's apple, hand reaching up to stroke Arthur's half-hard prick until it was fully erect and leaking.

Arthur whimpered when Eames removed his hand, but a moment later he found Eames was shoving a finger into his entrance, slicked with lube. As he started thrusting the digit in and out, he knelt down over Arthur and kissed him again, deepening it only at Arthur's unspoken permission, and all Arthur could do was put his arms around his neck and kiss back, small sounds escaping into the back of Eames's throat.

Eames slipped in another finger, and Arthur was so relaxed from the way Eames was handling him that his muscles barely resisted.

"Tell me how it feels," Eames whispered as he broke the kiss, breathless, still hovering there as if waiting to dive back in, and he pushed in a third finger.

Arthur licked at Eames's bottom lips and said with a delicate little moan, "it feels good… just don't… just don't stop…"

"Do you want me to just fuck you with my fingers, then?"

"No! No…" Arthur groaned, hips lifting off of the mattress. "Please, Eames… _please_ …" He was already starting to sound desperate, and normally that would bother him, but surprisingly it didn't. He wasn't thinking about anything else that night, just him and Eames. He didn't think he could think of his music, or of Ariadne, or of school even if he tried. Eames was everywhere, outside and inside, physical and mental. He wasn't sure how Eames was managing to fill up all of his sense, but it was impressive to say the least.

Eames pulled out his fingers, and Arthur heard as he ripped open the wrapper of a condom, causing him to open his eyes.

"No," Arthur said, reaching up to touch Eames's wrist. "Just… just do it. I trust you."

"Are you sure?" Eames asked, raising his eyebrows.

Arthur bit down on his bottom lip and nodded. "Yeah, I… I want to. I'm sure…"

Somehow this information seemed to touch Eames, because his eyes twinkled just a little brighter, his smile broadened just a little more. "I'll do whatever you want," Eames told him and knelt down to give him another long kiss while he slicked himself in preparation. A few moments later, he was shoving the head of his cock inside. Arthur's eyes watered a little, and he couldn't help but resist the pull of muscle at first, but it wasn't long until Eames was shoving himself deeper. Arthur's eyes rolled back into his head, and he couldn't help but claw at Eames's shoulders.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" Eames asked unsurely, voice tight.

"No… No, it feels good…" Arthur moaned, lifting his head off of the pillows to kiss Eames again.

"Let me know—if you want me to—"

" _Eames_ ," Arthur growled and bit at Eames's lip, and he felt a smile tugging at his own as he said, "Stop acting like a coward. You're already in."

Eames chuckled a little, pulled back and pushed back in, slowly building up a rhythm, and Arthur felt like he was catching on fire. He started riding Eames, trying to get as much of him inside as possible, completely lost to him. Normally, he would realize how _horrifying_ this fact was, but it felt too good for it to be wrong. It was _Eames_.

It was _Eames_ who had meant everything that he'd said.

"Don't cry," Eames said, and surely enough, Arthur could feel him brushing away tears.

"No—I'm not, my eyes are just watering," he said. He wasn't sure if it was a lie or not. All he could feel was Eames's cock brushing against his prostate, sending white hot shocks through his entire system.

Yes, he was sure that it had never been like this before. It wasn't just the lack of protection or the way Eames was slow and gentle… No, it was _why_ that was making it so different. They weren't even _fucking_ anymore. The word _fucking_ had far too harsh a connotation on it.

It was lame and had he heard it from someone else, he would have thought the whole 'making love' thing was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard, but it must have been what was happening because it was the only thing he could think of to describe it. The flutter in his heart was felt lighter, and the burn rolling through his body with every roll of Eames's hips didn't have the same harshness and urgency to it as it had. He wasn't so concerned with getting off as he was with experiencing the feeling, cherishing each blissful moment. It was more powerful than any emotion he'd ever experienced, the highest of highs.

Eames rolled his hips one more time, and Arthur gasped and half-shouted, half-moaned as he spilled all over himself, euphoria flooding over him again and again until he wasn't sure of where he was anymore. When he came to, Eames was climaxing, and Arthur was caught off guard by the way he filled him up.

When Eames pulled out, it was with a trembling gasp, and he collapsed on top of Arthur, lowering his head into the crook of his neck. All Arthur could currently do was stare up at the ceiling, chest heaving, eyes still watering, and hold Eames. He only slowly became aware of the come leaking out of him, and he made a small sound.

Eames smiled against his neck, kissed there, and pulled away from his embrace to kneel down and lick Arthur clean, and Arthur just lay there, sighing and whimpering until he was finished, and then Eames returned to his spot in Arthur's arms.

"…that was nice…" Arthur sighed, and he knew it was an understatement, but his vocabulary was currently failing him.

"I love you," Eames said quietly, sounding nearly asleep, as if the three words were nothing but a simple afterthought.

"I love you more," Arthur replied, eyes slipping shut, and he reached over and turned on his alarm clock.

He was asleep within minutes, and he never slept so soundly.

* * *

The next morning, Eames was gone just as he had said he would be, and Arthur was pissed only at the alarm for waking him from his peaceful slumber. He did lay there for a few moments, just breathing in the air for a while, but eventually he knew he had to get up and get to class.

He showered and dressed, grabbed his things, grabbed an apple, and headed off to class as if he was floating on air. He didn't even realize he had such a large smile on his face until he came into class and got stares from his classmates.

…but then, it wasn't really the only reason, he came to discover when he and Ariadne went to lunch and within five minutes a girl named Rebecca was standing at their table and staring at them.

"So… is it true?" she asked when Arthur made eye contact with her.

"Is what true?" Arthur asked flatly.

"Are you…?" Rebecca asked hesitantly, raising her eyebrows like Arthur was supposed to already know.

"Am I what?" Arthur asked, getting agitated.

Rebecca sat down and fiercely whispered, "Are you _gay_?"

Arthur blinked with surprised. "Where did you hear that?" he asked, trying not to give too much away with his eyes. Ariadne wasn't really helping by snorting into her green tea, but Arthur didn't think it was necessary to harshly elbow her in the ribs yet.

"Jonah heard you say it at Starkey's yesterday, and Steve's totally a witness," Rebecca said. "Everybody is talking about it, you know."

"Jonah's been known to stretch the truth to suit his need for drama," Arthur said with a roll of his eyes.

"So, it's not true?" she asked.

"I'm not going to answer that," Arthur replied, taking a bite of his sandwich. "I'm not going to feed into stupid rumors. If I say nothing, people can assume whatever they'd like, but if I tell you yes or no, people will constantly question whether or not I'm lying or telling the truth, and I don't want people constantly asking me if I'm a homosexual. There've been enough rumors about me throughout my schooling experience, and I didn't respond to them then either, and that's why they stopped talking about them."

"I didn't ask for a lecture," Rebecca complained, and Arthur just responded with a probably condescending smile.

"If I am or if I'm not, I really don't see what business it is of yours. Run along and leave me to my lunch, please," Arthur replied.

"You know, it's not like anyone's all that surprised. You always kind of came off as a homo," Rebecca sneered, wrinkling her nose at him, curling a long blonde strand of hair around her fingertip.

"Oh?" Arthur responded lightly. He wasn't going to take her bait.

"Yeah, you know, the way you dress, the way you obsess over your hair, the way you only hang out with the school's token lesbian."

He felt Ariadne tense from next to him, could see her jaw clench out of his peripheral vision. He settled one hand on her knee under the table, squeezing lightly. He didn't want her raging out of control either, even if he would have liked to see it after Rebecca had made such a crude and careless statement. Frankly, he was pissed off about it too, but to let her know that would be to let her ultimately win and he'd rather watch her flounder.

"Say what you like, Rebecca, but I wasn't the one caught sucking face with that slut Pam during homecoming," Ariadne replied venomously (after all, Arthur had taught her so well). "You'd best move along now unless you forget that I share a dormitory with you, and you'll definitely wake up looking like a dyke, complete with short hair and flannel shirts. I'd have a very nice time burning all those slutty rags you call clothes… though I'm sure they're so doused in that shitty perfume they'd burn up pretty quick. Run along to your sorority girls and cry to them, and then maybe you can have a pillow fight and make out some more!" Ariadne threw on her most agitated smile and clapped her hands together in a mock girly-girl fashion.

Rebecca huffed, clearly horrified of Ariadne's plans and angry she'd been talked to in such a way, but she didn't really have anything she could say to back it up. She stormed off, blonde hair swinging behind her and heels clopping dramatically.

"Bitch," Ariadne growled, looking back down to her meal and picking at it.

"Don't let her get to you," Arthur replied, starting to go back to his own meal when he noticed she still wasn't eating hers, instead choosing to just stare at it through a curtain of hair. "Ariadne…" he said more gently, placing his hand on her shoulder.

"I don't see how she can just talk to people like that," she said, voice cracking a little. "I mean, how dare she just come up and ask you stuff like that? That's so rude! And… and… Just because I wear boots, and I'm modest, and I don't have a boyfriend, I'm automatically a lesbian? She's such a bitch, such a complete and total bitch! I don't understand why boys want girls like her! It's sickening!"

"No _real_ man wants a girl like her," Arthur assured her. "Don't let her make you feel bad about being who you are."

Ariadne sniffed, wiping at one eye. "I'm not… I'm _not_ , okay?... It's just… Look, being a major in architecture, I go into class, and it's already a big boy's club. I'm one of three girls in my architecture class, _three_ … and I'm good at what I do, and I'm _proud_ of that, but… well, the boys only see me like dating material. Sure, I like to pretend they do, but I know they actually don't. I'm one of the guys, and when she says stuff like that it's… it just reminds me of that. It makes me feel like shit… and… I feel really horrible for saying this because I am really happy for you and ah—your relationship—but I was so jealous. I want someone to kiss _me_ that way, you know? I want someone to look at _me_ the way he looks at you. I want all of that stuff as sappy and silly as it is. You're really lucky, Arthur. Hang onto that and never let it go if you can help it."

Arthur found a blush creeping across his cheeks at that, and he pulled Ariadne into a quick hug.

She was right. He _was_ lucky. He was extremely lucky.

He was only just now realizing how lucky he was to not be so alone in life, to realize that someone liked him just because he was him. Not only did Eames like him just because he was himself, he liked him _in spite_ of himself. He had met him drunk, allowed himself to splutter out insult after insult at him, seen him when he was overwhelmed with self-loathing, told him he was precious and special even when he felt like absolute shit. He'd stuck around at least quite a few days, which was more than most people in Arthur's life (sans Ariadne of course), and even though he'd only known him for a short time it seemed that he knew exactly what to say and when to say it.

All he could do was hope he didn't fuck all of it up. He would definitely make an effort to hold onto it as long as he could.

…though, he couldn't help but still worry about what could happen.

* * *

"Well, look at you, all sunshine-y, all sparkly and happy."

Eames was caught a little off guard when he entered Saito's penthouse suite to find Nash and Yusuf there along with Cobb. Nash was the one who had spoken up, in a condescending little tone, lounged on Saito's bed with is bass guitar across his lap. He had this knowing little smirk on his face that immediately annoyed Eames, but there was a definite possibility that his face just looked like that.

"You look… greasy and unkempt as usual," Eames replied, beaming at Nash. It wiped the smirk off of Nash's face for the time being, but he still had an air of satisfaction that didn't dissipate.

"Cobb already told us that you have a sweet young thing," Yusuf said, and Eames wondered if Saito knew he was messing with the wires of his television set, "said it was some student, some bloke down at the college down the road that Mal works at."

"Ah… yeah, I do," Eames said, choosing to sit on the couch with Cobb and giving him a quick glare. "He's not that young though, and to be honest he's really not all that sweet a lot of the time, at least not to most people, and he's not a thing either… so, actually no, no I don't."

"You are playing with fire," Nash said. "Idiot, do you know what the press is going to do when they find out about all this? They will screw you into next Tuesday, you know."

"I've been able to keep my sexuality a secret for years, Nash, and Cobb's bloody _married_ and no one has figured that out. To be honest, I'm not all that terribly concerned."

"True, but you haven't had a steady relationship since you started up in the band. You've only fucked around with guys on the side, guys no one would believe even if they said they fucked you," Nash replied. "Damn it, it's so fucking unfair that you get all the fan girls and yet you prefer man ass. It makes me sick."

Eames was not amused by Nash's skepticism, but he decided to let it slide for the time being because he was in too good a mood to be angry. "We're not here to talk about my relationships anyway. There's got to be some more important reason you're here, right? Surely you didn't come here just to hear the juicy details of how I like to do the nasty."

"Cobb finished writing the words to that song of yours and wanted us to start working on it so we could perform it at the concert. Also, Saito wants us to do some interviews for S.O.S. over the next few days since we're one of the most famous groups in the show," Yusuf answered. "There, I fixed the set. I told you I could do it."

"Interviews, eh? Where are the interviews being held?" Eames asked, lighting up a cigarette.

"Down where they're setting up," Cobb explained, "and a few of them at the Cobol School since a lot of their students are performing in the show as well. They wanted to interview Mal and the leading professor of music at that school, and maybe even a couple of students."

"Oh," Eames said, smiling a little. "Well, that should be fun then."

"No screwing your boyfriend in public," Nash said, and Eames would have liked to throw something at Nash if he'd had anything to throw.

"I'm not so unprofessional that I would do such a thing, you wanker," Eames grumbled, "oh, and Cobb, you're bloody terrible at keeping secrets. I'm not really sure how you've managed to hide your wife this long if you can't keep someone else's relationship under wraps for so much as two days."

"I thought they should know," Cobb said with a shrug. "You didn't tell me it was a secret from the rest of the band. They already knew that you preferred men, so I thought it was fine."

Eames pouted a little but didn't say anything.

He didn't want to tell Cobb that he didn't want them to know because he didn't want them to _tell_. He was sure Yusuf wasn't much of a problem since they were actually quite good friends even when they weren't performing, but Nash had had his fair share of problems with Eames in the past (mainly that he got more attention than Nash did for his looks, his playing, and his involvement in the songwriting—and probably the leather pants and showboating too), and all Nash needed was a reason to fuck Eames over. Nash wouldn't screw things up if it put the band at risk, unless he really thought it was worth it.

Nash's concept of worth didn't stretch too far.

…but Cobb didn't want to believe there was unrest in his band, and for the moment, there wasn't, so Eames kept it all to himself and reminded himself to try to be as civil as possible to everyone for the time being.

"Gentlemen," Saito said as he entered the room. "Let us talk."

Eames set his fears about Nash to the back of his mind for the moment. They all had more important things to deal with.

…but Eames wouldn't allow himself to forget.


	8. Track Eight: Heavy in Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Eight: Heavy in Your Arms

It was during orchestra practice the next day that Arthur realized the rumors circulating about him were having a bit more impact on his life than he had expected.

"Arthur! You're playing sloppily! Get it together!" The professor, Dr. Jacobson, snarled, banging his conductor's staff on Arthur's music stand.

Arthur was a bit startled by the sudden shouting fit, especially since Jacobson had never directed his wrath at _him_ before. He was even more startled by it because of the fact that he had thought he'd been playing just fine, and he wasn't the only one.

"I thought it was fine," Robert Fischer, the pianist in their group, piped up, wearing the same mildly annoyed look he generally had at all times.

"Play it again," Jacobson said bitterly and walked back to his stand, lifted his arms, and began to conduct. Arthur counted in his head until his entrance and started in with the rest of the violinists, and they at least made it through the song before Jacobson turned back on him again. "If you keep playing like that, I'm going to have to move you to second chair."

Arthur was appalled by the statement, stunned silent for a straight minute. He'd been first chair since freshman year.

"Five minute break," Jacobson said, waving his arms tiredly, and as soon as the group dispersed, Robert Fischer caught Arthur by the elbow.

"What's his major malfunction?" Fischer asked, annunciating each syllable as he so often did to give off the intended effect of sounding smarter and more sophisticated than his peers. It was something his family life had surely instilled in him since he could speak.

"I don't… I don't know," Arthur admitted, feeling his nerves starting to coil. "Was it really that bad? Fuck… I don't—"

"No, you were doing fine. He's just singling you out for some reason," Robert replied, sending a glare in the teacher's direction when he wasn't looking. "He can't be that much of a homophobe, can he?"

"Homophobe?" Arthur scoffed. "Don't tell me you believe all that shit going around about me?"

"Oh, please," Robert said with a roll of his eyes. "I've known since I met you. I have gay-dar with one hundred percent accuracy, I'll have you know."

Arthur blushed, nostrils flaring.

"Don't get offended," Fischer said, planting himself back on his piano bench. "I'm just telling you what I know. I didn't start any stupid rumors if that's what you're thinking. I have heard them though, and I'm thinking that maybe Dr. Jack-ass-son heard them too. Maybe that's why he's being such a major dick to you."

"That's ridiculous," Arthur replied. "He's a teacher. He has a doctorate for fuck's sake. What would my sexuality have to do with my playing?"

"I don't know, Arthur, but I've seen people do stuff like this. A lot of people aren't very accepting of gay people. You know that."

"—but… he doesn't even know if it's true!" Arthur complained.

"I don't know what to tell you," Robert said with a shrug, tinkering on his keys. "I mean, I'm not a violinist, but you weren't playing any differently than the other violinists, so clearly he's got some kind of bone to pick with you. You could always ask him, but I doubt he'd tell you the truth."

"You don't think he's going to take away my solo, do you?" Arthur asked hesitantly.

"If he does, just go running to Mal Cobb. She'll certainly set him straight. I hear she can get pretty fiery when she's angry. I personally intend to stay out of it. I don't want him barking at me for my playing."

"Yeah…" Arthur said slowly and turned to go back to his seat. He didn't know how to process what he'd just been told. He'd been hated in the past for his attitude, been treated badly out of jealousy, but he'd never had someone dislike him for what felt like no reason. It wasn't like Arthur was fucking any of the students, and he wasn't doing it on school grounds, and he wasn't going around talking about it. He didn't understand how just _being_ a homosexual was _offensive_. He figured that was why, for the first time ever, the fact that someone hated him actually made him feel horrible. He never used to care because he could justify it, but…

He tried to ignore Jacobson's protests through the rest of practice and left without saying goodbye when it was over.

Maybe he was still shell-shocked, but he wasn't really sure how to feel about the whole thing. All he knew was that he wanted to see Eames, so he went home and did his homework and, by nightfall, set off to Eames's hotel.

* * *

Security was much harsher than it had been the last time Arthur had been there, but he played it cool and made it into the elevator without issue. He was, however, sent away by the guards on Eames's floor and nearly chased down when he tried to sneak in through the stairway. He was afraid he was about to be beaten within an inch of his life until Eames arrived like his proverbial knight in shining armor and sent the guard away.

"You all right?" he asked.

Arthur wanted to scream at him that he wasn't, that he'd been harassed enough today thank you very much, but instead he just nodded and followed after him.

"They're just looking out for all of us, you know," Eames tried to explain as he opened the door. "I'll get you some kind of pass so you can get up here without trouble next time. I didn't even think about it."

"it's fine," Arthur mumbled, stepping inside only to find that he had a few pairs of eyes staring back at him.

It was Cobb, and Yusuf, and Nash. All of Radical Notion was in Eames's hotel room.

"Uh… hi…" Arthur said awkwardly, gripping tightly to his violin case. He wanted to scurry out and hide in the elevator.

"It's all right," Eames assured him, squeezing his shoulder. "Cobb told them about you. There's no need to be nervous."

Arthur wasn't sure why Eames expected that to make him _less_ nervous when really it only amplified his nerves.

"You must be Arthur then," Cobb said, getting up off of the bed to extend a hand. "Dom Cobb. Mal's told me a lot about you."

"H—hopefully only good things," Arthur mumbled, shaking his hand. "Um… I'm sorry. I didn't expect all of you to—I mean, I can come back some other time…"

"It's all right," Yusuf said, twirling a drumstick around his fingers. He was sitting in front of an electric drum kit, probably brought up for convenience rather than sound. "We were just running through a new song. We thought practicing here was safer than trying to go to the studio. Ever since word got around that we're all back in town, fans have been on the hunt."

"O—oh…" Arthur mumbled, taking a seat on the corner of the bed. "Ah… well, uh… it's nice to meet you. I'm um… well, you already know my name—"

"Darling," Eames chuckled, leaning down to peck him on the lips. "It's _fine_. These are my friends. You don't have to be so formal."

"I'm sorry," Arthur croaked. He was making a fool of himself, he just knew it.

"Don't even worry about it," Eames said. Arthur couldn't help but do so, though. His relationship with Eames was still so brand new that he was terrified one false word to one of his closest friends would fuck up everything forever.

"So, this is your boyfriend, huh?" Nash asked, raising an eyebrow as he tuned the lowest string on his bass. "He's not exactly what I'd expect you to go for, Eames. He's sort of… sophisticated for you, isn't he? I mean, he's wearing a collared shirt and _khakis_ for Christ's sakes."

Arthur tried not to regret his choice of fashion, but surely, he realized, he must have been looking like a complete tool to the glamorous rock stars he was surrounded by.

"Don't listen to him," Eames said, flopping down next to Arthur on the bed and grabbing his guitar out from behind him. "I like the way that you dress. You're wrapped up like a pretty little present."

"I… I have a t-shirt on underneath this shirt," Arthur stammered, only registering what Eames had said after he'd blurted such an embarrassing thing out. He was tempted to bury his face in his hands because surely it had turned red, but instead he just watched as Eames sent a glare in the direction of Nash who was snickering.

"Why's he such a wreck? I thought you said he was feisty," Nash said.

"Oh, fuck off, Nash," Eames sighed, "Can we just play the damned song already?"

"We've already played it like… three times. It's not working," Nash replied.

"Three times is hardly enough to make an accurate assessment, Nash," Yusuf replied, deadpan. "It'll sound better when we have amps and real drums, all right? Just play the damned song."

"Thank you, Yusuf," Eames said.

" _Cobb_!" Nash whined.

"Just play the damned song," Cobb repeated. "I think this one could be a real hit if we get it down."

Eames perked up suddenly and turned to Arthur. "Say… why don't you sit in with us? You can play along. You heard the rough track of it before."

"I… I don't know…"

"Yeah, come on, Eames says you're spectacular. Put your money where his mouth is," Nash said.

Arthur decided he didn't like Nash. At all… All the same, knowing this he decided to take his words as the challenge they were.

"All right," he said, opening his case. "I'll try and keep up."

Eames started to play, and Arthur waited until Cobb started singing to start adding in a few low notes from his violin. Eames really had put a lot of faith in his memory, but the truth was Arthur couldn't have forgotten that song even if he tried.

Nash brought in a thrumming bass line along with Arthur's playing, and by the chorus Yusuf jumped in with the drums, and with all of the instruments and Cobb's voice, the song was eerily powerful… He didn't really…

He didn't really _like_ it.

"Uh," he interrupted after the first chorus, and Nash melodramatically sighed and threw his hands in the air. Arthur didn't care. "This seems a little… _brash_ for the message, don't you think?"

Silence.

He had at least expected Eames to back him up…

Oh, well.

"That is, uh… I mean, it seems a tad overdramatic… I know that rock music is supposed to be dramatic and all that, but this is like… a love song. This is a love song, and if you overdo it with screaming guitars and banging drum solos, no one's going to take it seriously. It's too beautiful a song to have people wave it off… I mean, it's just my opinion… but maybe if you toned it down a little it would be better?"

"How would you suggest we do it exactly?" Cobb asked, squinting at Arthur curiously. Arthur appreciated that he didn't immediately shut him down at least.

"Well, uh…" Arthur said, lifting his violin back to his chin. "I can't really… that is… Maybe you just start out with an acoustic, and uh… maybe bring in a guest pianist or something? I mean, you don't have to make it sappy or anything, but you don't want it to come out sounding like an eighties' power ballad, do you?"

The whole band seemed to pale at that thought.

Well, at least Arthur had their attention.

"The theatrics really aren't all that necessary, is what I'm saying," Arthur said. "The song is _good_. It'll speak for itself."

He started to play it. "See, Eames, you could play an acoustic intro here, and then Cobb, you can come in just on vocals. Think of how you guys' did with _Colored Lights_. Um… yeah, and maybe bring it down a little, not quite so high up in your register, Cobb. Yeah, you can sing it there right now, but after twenty shows in twenty nights will you be able to? Save your powerful voice for the more powerful songs… Ah…" Arthur started to sing it in the register he had suggested, thankfully managing to not squeak when he was being stared at. As he finished the first verse, he continued, "and then maybe you could bring in the piano or a soft bass line, a light tap of the drums—some harmonies on the vocals would be good, I think." He sang the chorus.

"Why are we listening to this?" Nash asked when Arthur had barely finished the last word. "He's not _in_ our band."

"I like it," Yusuf replied, a smirk forming on his lips at the idea that he was agitating Nash. "Maybe instead of the drum or bass line, you could play what you're playing, Arthur. I've always thought we could use a little more _class_ in our tracks."

"You've never thought that," Eames snorted.

"You have no idea what I've thought. I don't verbalize everything that comes to my mind, you see," Yusuf replied simply.

Cobb shrugged. "Let's try it. Eames, Arthur, could you sing the harmonies? You can do that, right?"

"Sure," Eames said.

"I… guess I could try…" Arthur said awkwardly.

Nash folded his arms, nostrils flaring, and sat back to listen in aggravation.

Eames started to play, and then Cobb started to sing, and Arthur counted each measure, waiting for the right moment to come in on the violin while also thinking of what harmonies could work (he had to draw on his vocal classes from years ago, but thankfully being a musician he had a pretty good idea of what notes worked with what).

When the chorus picked up, he and Eames started singing with Cobb, and Arthur started playing whatever sounded right. Arthur was nervous, but he didn't miss a note because music was what he lived for (and he'd been practicing performing for others of course).

When they paused after the first chorus again, Cobb was nodding. "I like that," he said. "It's not complete yet, but—"

"Actually," Arthur interrupted because he'd been thinking the same thing. "Nash, can you play a five-string too?"

"Of course I can," Nash replied, and for once it wasn't quite so snotty.

"During Eames's acoustic intro, maybe you could bring in a few notes on the electric," Arthur suggested.

"I need to bring in a keyboard," Yusuf huffed.

"Can you play keyboard?" Arthur asked.

"I can. I haven't in a while, but piano was always my first love," Yusuf replied with a smile.

"That and your good old left hand, eh, Yusuf?" Eames asked, and the group laughed.

"You're pretty good at this, Arthur," Cobb said as the sound died down and Yusuf was mumbling about what tossers they all were. "Thanks for all the help."

"…Well, it was just an opinion," Arthur shrugged. "I mean, I'm not a big listener of rock music, but—"

"As long as I get a solo, you're all right in my book," Nash replied, already picking out the melody on Eames's electric.

"Stop being such a bloody narcissist and wash your hair," Yusuf barked, smacking him on the back of the head and then proceeding to wipe his hand on his vest. " _I'm_ the one nobody bloody notices. At least they remember your name. I don't even get floozies on the side like you do, Nash! All I want is a little love. Is that too much to ask?"

"You're being overdramatic," Eames chuckled, not even noticing as he wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and settled his head on his shoulder as he so often tended to do. "Your cats love you, at least."

"Kindly go fuck yourself, Eames," Yusuf grumbled.

"Can I go fuck Arthur instead?"

Arthur went bright red, and they all seemed to find that funny. After a moment, he seemed to find it funny too because he started to laugh.

…and no, the night certainly didn't go as he expected. He'd wanted to spend a night alone with Eames and gripe about what was going on at school and then let him fuck it all better… but… really, by the end of the night, they were finalizing the song, and Arthur had nearly forgotten all about it.

* * *

Arthur woke when Eames gently shoved his shoulder. When he pulled his face up off of the pillow, the clock read 4:30 A.M.

He groaned and dropped face first back into the down feathers. "Why are you waking me up now?"

"Because you need to go home and get ready for school," Eames replied softly.

Arthur grumbled and let Eames pull him out of bed, but he didn't make any effort to go further than to lean against the warmth of Eames's body and sigh. He must have fallen asleep at some time around one, when the band had been winding down into quietly talking, and he'd lain back just to relax a little. He was thankful the rest of the band was gone now at least, so he could have a moment alone with Eames.

"Arthur, you don't want to be late, do you?" Eames asked, chuckling as Arthur curled against his chest and attempted to fall asleep that way.

"I don't have class until nine," Arthur mumbled. "Let me stay just a little longer?"

"I'm sure I can arrange that," Eames replied, kissing the shell of Arthur's ear. "I've got to go to an interview at seven though… So, I'm afraid it won't be as long as you might like. Come on, come into the bath with me."

Arthur shuffled into the bathroom behind Eames and couldn't help but eye the large Jacuzzi bath that he'd seen the time he'd hidden in the bathroom when Cobb had come by. He couldn't help but smile a little.

"So, you seemed a bit troubled yesterday," Eames said as he filled the tub. "Is something bothering you?"

"Huh?" Arthur blinked, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it on the floor before tugging his t-shirt over his head. "Oh… ah… no, it's nothing. It's not a big deal. Don't worry about it."

"No, tell me, I want to know," Eames said, grinning as he dropped his robe and stepped into the water, easing slowly into the heat.

Arthur followed him into the tub, the hot water stinging just a little until he relaxed into it. "It's not a big deal," he said again, suddenly shy about it. "I guess I sort of embarrassed myself at the bar the other day, and I may have come out of the closet to the bartender. Some other people heard, and there are rumors going around that I'm gay."

"Oh, bugger," Eames said, pouring a handful of shampoo into his palm and then scrubbing it into Arthur's hair. "It is true though, isn't it?"

"Irrelevant," Arthur replied, laughing a little. "Yeah, it's true, but what or who I do in my private time is none of their business. I neither confirmed nor denied anything."

"So, that's not what's bothering you, then? What is it?" Eames asked, snickering as Arthur started scrubbing shampoo into Eames's hair as well, both of them tangling their limbs in the process.

"Oh, it's… it's really nothing, Eames. It's just… well… I'm thinking that this stupid rumor has gotten around to the teachers and everything—you know how fast things can spread—and ah… well, I feel like I'm being treated a little… _differently_."

"Differently? How?" Eames asked, clearly concerned.

Arthur chose that moment to slip under the water to wash the shampoo out of his hair and also to avoid the question. When he came back up for air, Eames had gone down to do the same, reappearing over the surface as Arthur parted his wet bangs out of his eyes.

"So? Who is it who's treating you differently? What are they saying?" Eames asked.

"It's _nothing_ , Eames, seriously. It's just Dr. Jacobson, the leading professor of music over at the college, he's been kind of… well, he just wasn't—I mean—"

"He's being mean to you," Eames guessed.

"It sounds really childish and silly when you say it like that," Arthur mumbled. "Kind of… He insulted my playing, threatened to take me out of first chair. Robert Fischer—he's a piano player—said that it sounded just fine and clearly he just had a problem with me. He said that he betted it had something to do with these 'gay' rumors swirling around. I don't even know if that's true. Fischer likes to come up with stuff like that all the time."

"That's bollocks," Eames said, grabbing the bar of soap and pulling Arthur close to wash his back. "What a wanker. I do hope you won't let it get to you."

"I'm _not_ ," Arthur said, shutting one eye as Eames rubbed soap on his cheek. "It's just… It's just _weird_ , okay? I was kind of caught off guard by the sudden change in attitude. Jacobson always liked me before. I've been first chair since freshman year because he was so impressed by my playing. If he suddenly hates what I'm doing, I can't help but feel that… well, maybe he's right. I mean, what does Fischer know about violin?"

"You have _got_ to stop demeaning yourself, love," Eames said, washing himself while Arthur splashed water over his face to remove the soap, dabbing it off with a white cloth hanging next to the bath. "Your friend, Fischer, surely knows his stuff when it comes to music, even if he doesn't play violin."

"Dr. Jacobson was a violinist for years and has his doctorate _in_ music. I think his opinion has a bit more—"

"Bollocks, Arthur! That's bollocks, and you and I both know it. Do you think you played it correctly?"

"Well, _yeah_ , but—"

"Then you played it fine, Arthur. If there's anyone who knows his stuff about playing the violin, it's you."

"I haven't been playing as long as—"

"It doesn't matter. You're a bloody _prodigy_ , Arthur. You're gifted, darling. I've never seen someone pick up on a song as fast as you do, and no one plays quite like you do. Don't let anyone tell you that you don't have the skills that you do. I don't believe this shit when it comes to you not playing it right. I've got to agree with Fischer on this one."

"You weren't there," Arthur huffed. "There's no way you can know that for sure. You're just biased."

"That may be," Eames admitted, leaning in close, "but as a fellow musician, I do believe I know what I'm talking about as well."

Arthur smiled as Eames pressed a kiss to his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck. The sweet, chaste kiss quickly deepened, Arthur gasping into Eames's mouth as Eames licked his way inside, and he pressed as much of his body against Eames's as he could.

Water splashed over the side of the tub as Eames shoved Arthur against it, Arthur yelping as his limbs scattered to touch Eames as much as possible. He couldn't help himself any more than Eames apparently could, his hands scrambling down his ribs and down his thighs, and then hoisting one leg up over his shoulder. He didn't take long to stretch him out before pushing himself inside, Arthur biting down on a strangled cry, and they fucked in the water, hot and fast, because they didn't have just a whole lot of time. Arthur's noises were obscene and unapologetic, and he was sure if there were people in the other rooms (there weren't, other than the other band mates far down the hall—Saito had rented out the whole floor to ensure their safety), they would have been disturbed by the sounds and blushing all the way to their ears.

Somehow, this made it hotter for him, but he didn't tell Eames as much (not that he _could_ ). As he impaled himself on Eames's prick, he couldn't help but think that the idea that people could hear was alarmingly attractive. It was as if he was showing everyone who even dared to badmouth him just for his sexuality that he was much better off than them, that he didn't care what they thought, that he had better sex than them and would continue to do so whether they got their jollies off of it or not. Somehow, the illicitness of the act, the solidification of the idea of the forbidden fruit made it taste all the sweeter, made the bite marks Eames left on his skin sting with more pleasure than before, made the fistful of wet hair Arthur grabbed onto for support feel all the more perfect between his fingers.

He couldn't help but feel like Eames knew exactly where to put his hands and mouth, like he'd been performing with Arthur for years. Eames knew Arthur as well as he knew his guitars, picking out little songs on Arthur's heartstrings so that they sang out of his mouth in long moans and gasps. He couldn't believe he'd ever thought that Eames's words were untrue when he touched him the way that he did, when he made such an effort to play the right song with the scrapes of his teeth and the flutter of his fingers and the warm softness of his tongue.

He didn't even have to talk. Eames knew exactly how to say everything without words.

Eames's hand drifted across his abdomen and then wrapped around Arthur's cock, stroking it with just enough force to send Arthur's nerves into a frenzy. Right on cue, Eames's cock brushed against his prostate, and suddenly Arthur feared he might get so hot that all the water in the bath might just evaporate, and _fuck_ , he was just fine with that. His hands scrambled along the tiles, slipping as it searched for something to hold onto, and he finally decided on just grabbing onto Eames's shoulders and not letting go. It only took him four tugs and he was toppling over the edge, ears filling with white noise, sparks filling his vision, and he was sure he must have been shouting (and probably shouting some rather lewd things as well), but he didn't care at all. He could feel Eames's hand tighten its grip on his waist, could feel him filling him up…

…and then it was over. As soon as Eames pulled his softening member out, Arthur was slumping down into the water, feeling absolutely boneless, and he could have drowned and felt satisfied at that moment. When he ventured to open his eyes, he could see his own seed floating on the top of the water, could feel Eames's leaking out of him, and he could see Eames slumped next to him with an arm around him, leaning Arthur's head against his shoulder to keep him from slipping under the water.

Eames was always looking out for him. Eames always knew.

Arthur pressed a kiss to Eames's chest, and Eames raked his hands through Arthur's wet hair.

"I love you," Arthur sighed, and then Eames pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

"To the stars and back?" he asked, and Arthur snorted. "What? That's what my mum always used to tell me. She used to tell me that she loved me to the stars and back."

Arthur smiled, pushing himself up to look at Eames and then kissed him chastely on the lips. "I love you to the stars and back."

"I love you to the ends of the universe," Eames replied, as if it was now some sort of competition…

…and it should have been cheesy. Arthur should have scoffed and gotten out of the tub and told Eames to man up and stop being such a schmuck. If it had been Arthur a month ago, a year ago, he would have never listened to the sap and probably would have been disgusted by anyone who fell for that crap (i.e. Ariadne)…

…but he wasn't the same person, and Eames wasn't saying it just to be schmaltzy. When he looked at Arthur and said it, Arthur could see it in every little movement that he meant every word of it. The feeling was overwhelming but not in the bad way that his emotions usually tended to turn. He couldn't believe he'd denied himself of this feeling for so long…

…but it wasn't his fault… After all, he'd never been aware of how strongly he could feel it. He'd never loved anything quite like he loved Eames. The only thing that came even remotely close was his music.

Music…

Arthur was again reminded of the fact that Eames was a musician, a _famous_ musician destined to run off on tours and television shows and premieres and studios and… in a little over a week, he would be gone.

Eames had to leave.

Arthur had gone and forgotten that little bit of information when he'd gotten distracted by falling in love. Now it came smacking him in the face, and all he could do was grip Eames's arm tightly and shake his head when Eames asked if there was anything wrong.

There wasn't anything wrong, not yet. When that day came that Eames waltzed out of his life back onto the road, Arthur wasn't sure how he would be able to deal. Even if Eames proclaimed to stay loyal to him until he returned to his side, Arthur wondered how he would manage without Eames's soft touches and words of encouragement. He feared that time apart from Arthur would allow Eames to realize how much of a prize he _wasn't_ , and then he would get left in the dust to pick up the pieces of his heart.

He didn't want Eames to go. He wanted Eames to stay with him and be there at his apartment to pet his hair when he had a bad day, to hold him during one of his episodes until he calmed down, and to sing him songs when he couldn't sleep. Most of all, he just wanted Eames _around_.

…but he couldn't tell him that. It was definitely too much to ask in a relationship as brand new as theirs. He couldn't ask him to choose his music or Arthur because Arthur certainly couldn't make that choice. He wasn't so selfish that he would dare ask Eames to make that decision. He was sure that Eames would choose his music every time. After all, the man had gone without shelter, probably gone without food and water, lived on the _streets_ just so that he could continue to play his guitar. He had thousands upon thousands of devoted fans and close friends in his band members, and Arthur had seen how brightly Eames shone on stage. Eames loved every second of performing. Arthur was just another instrument on which he could do so, and Arthur loved that… and because of his love for his work, Arthur could most definitely _never_ ask him to give it up for him.

After all, Arthur really wasn't that much of a prize. He was stubborn and on occasion tended to be emotionally constipated. He was bitchy and generally spent a lot of time complaining, and when he had a problem, he usually went drinking rather than attempted to solve it. He was so unbearable a person a lot of the time that Ariadne was his only true friend. Worst of all, Eames couldn't even show Arthur off. They weren't allowed to be seen together at all per their unspoken agreement. They couldn't even talk about each other in public places. The hell that would crumble down on them should either of them speak up was devastating enough just in the _imagination_ , so Arthur couldn't even think of how bad it would be in reality.

It wasn't fair… All he wanted to do was love Eames and let Eames love him back, to have Eames come home to him a lot and to maybe go with Eames sometimes. He wanted to sing songs with Eames and play violin on top of his solos. He wanted to eat breakfast with him and maybe get a cat and let Eames name him something stupid so that they could call it even stupider pet names. He wanted to sleep next to Eames and let him keep him warm on the cold nights. He just wanted a _life_ with Eames.

He just wanted something that he couldn't have.

Maybe the whole relationship was as bad an idea as he first thought it was after all.

…but he didn't tell Eames anything.


	9. Track Nine: All These Things That I've Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Nine: All These Things That I've Done

After Eames left, Arthur lounged in the bed where they'd fucked a second time for a while, head heavy with his worries and fears. He wasn't sure who to go to or what to do about it. When they were fucking, Eames's fingers brushing against his jaw and cheekbones, he'd momentarily let the thoughts fade away again, but now that he was gone they were back in full force.

Arthur stared at the ceiling, and he was sure his face looked as horrified as he felt, and he wondered just what his future was supposed to bring now. He probably should have told Eames about all of it, but he just _couldn't_. He didn't want Eames to pass off his thoughts as nonsense and kiss away his fears only so that he could carry the burden instead of Arthur. He didn't want to hurt him that way.

Maybe, he thought, he should talk to Ariadne… No, she would tell him to stop worrying as well and then probably tell Eames.

No, Ariadne was definitely out. Mal however… Mal could probably give him some sound advice, what with her being married to Cobb and everything. Just the idea of talking to her about it gave him a little relief, enough to get him out of the bed, out of the hotel, and back to his apartment to change. Since he'd already bathed, he made it to school fairly early and caught a few of the orchestra students, including Robert Fischer, setting up for their own little jam session. They'd done it often in the past but Arthur had never participated, preferring to sit off in his own corner and practice his songs.

Today though, he set his violin down in his chair as Fischer started into a piano intro, eyebrows raised as he watched the keys with his too-clear eyes. Arthur couldn't help but realize just how talented a musician Fischer really was. He'd never really taken the time to pay that much attention other than the passive way he had in the attempt to stay in time. He also couldn't help but recognize the song as one of the songs on one of the few non-Classical albums he actually owned.

"We need a singer," Ally, a cellist, said as she pulled her bow across the strings.

"I'll do it," Arthur volunteered, and it caused everyone to pause and stare at him.

There was a moment of hesitation, and Robert said, setting his fingers back on the keys, "All right. See if you can follow along."

He played the intro again, and the group chuckled a little when Arthur crawled up onto the piano and crossed his legs, and he smiled a little out of a bit of nervousness. He shut his eyes, thought of Eames, and started to sing, bouncing his leg to the beat. " _I… waited 'til I saw the sun… I don't know why I didn't come, I… left you by the house of fun… I don't know why I didn't come, I… don't know why I didn't come…_ "

He sank into the warmth of the song, warm like Eames's kisses and just a little tragic like them too. Even though it was a little sad, he couldn't help but tilt up one corner of his mouth at the thought of him. " _When I saw the break of day… I wish that I could fly away… Instead of kneeling in the sand, catching teardrops in my hand..._ " He wondered what Eames would think if he knew he was doing this, actually trying to participate in things with his peers rather than separating himself, that he was actually _singing_ in front of people who could judge and berate him. He couldn't help but think that Eames would be proud of him.

Slowly though, his thoughts drifted back to the ones of that morning, and the song surely took on a more melancholy feel than it had before. " _My heart is drenched in wine… but you'll be on my mind… forever…_ "

There was a pang in Arthur's chest, most definitely.

" _Out across the endless sea… I will die in ecstasy… but I'll be a bag of bones… drivin' down the road alone… My heart is drenched in wine… but you'll be on my mind forever…_ "

The little pang in his chest bloomed into a legitimate pain, one similar to the one he had felt that night when he had bared himself on his violin, and it took a new kind of strength to not burst into tears over all the worries rolling around in his head and sinking in his chest as Robert finished his solo. " _Something has to make you run… I don't know why I didn't come, I… feel as empty as a drum… I don't know why I didn't come, I… don't know why I didn't come, I… don't know why I didn't come…_ "

The song drew to a close, and Arthur ventured to open his eyes to find that he was being stared at again. That seemed to be happening a lot lately, he thought.

"That was cool!" Ally piped up, still such a freshman. "I didn't know you had pipes, Artie!"

He didn't like being called Artie, but he decided not to correct her since she was complimenting him. "Th—thanks," he said. "I just really like that song…"

"Maybe you should sing in the S.O.S. concert," Fischer offered, a bit sardonically because truthfully he never could help himself. "With Jacobson getting on your case for no reason, I bet you the choir director would be completely willing to snatch you up."

"I'm not bothered by what Jacobson said yesterday," Arthur said with a shrug, hopping off of the piano. "Maybe he was just having a bad day or something. I'm not leaving the orchestra."

"We had no idea you were cool, Artie," Ally chuckled, smacking his ass as she passed him and all he could do was straighten his back out of surprise. "Let's do another one, okay? I bet you can tear up some Lady Gaga, yeah?"

"I don't even know who that is," Arthur replied.

"You lead a sheltered life," Robert replied, shaking his head in mock disgrace. "Do you even listen to anything other than classical music and the occasional Norah Jones?"

"I like Radical Notion," Arthur admitted before he could stop himself. It literally spilled out of his mouth before his brain had the opportunity to think it.

"Really?" Ally asked excitedly, hopping up on the piano where Arthur had previously sat, skinny jeans slipping down her hips a little as her legs kicked over the side. "I _love_ them. I went to their concert when they were here, and it was just _boss_. Did you go?"

"Ah… yeah, Ariadne and I went. I'm kind of new to the band, but I do like their songs."

"Who's your favorite in the band?" she asked. "Fishy, who's your favorite?"

"Don't call me _fishy_ , it's demeaning," Fischer spat, improvising a little tune on the keys as if he wasn't even trying (and maybe he wasn't). "I suppose it would have to be… oh, what's his name on the drums? He played piano on a Queen tribute album, and I was extremely impressed."

"I like Cobb. I think he is just _so_ sexy," Ally said, grinning with all of her pretty white teeth. "His voice is the best voice on the radio right now."

"Eames is really good on the guitar," Arthur said, going inexplicably shy all of a sudden. "He's a bit theatrical though, for my tastes anyway."

"He can be as theatrical as he wants. He's _gorgeous_ , and when he talks, that accent just sends me into shivers. My best friend from high school, Lori, Eames kissed her hand when he autographed her CD at their concert in my hometown two years ago, and she pretty much fainted on the spot. He's got a mouth like a porn star, I swear."

Arthur fought back the urge to blush, but there wasn't much he could do when she'd gone and mentioned the mouth that had been on his dick in the bedroom that morning. He actually felt his cock jump in his pants a little just at the memory, and he was grateful he'd gone to stand behind the piano where no one would notice.

"Looks aren't all that matter, you know," Robert said flatly. "You're so shallow, Ally."

"—says the man with the crystal eyes and perfect bone structure," Ally replied, nudging Arthur with her elbow.

"It's what you _do_ with your life that matters," Robert continued, hunching over the keys, seemingly just a little embarrassed by the comments on his looks. "Looks are so meaningless. You should appreciate Cobb and Eames for their abilities, not for how fuckable they may or may not be."

"You're just being a stick in the mud because you haven't been laid in months," Ally said, laying down on the piano like a stereotypical lounge singer. "I can help you with that."

"I'm not interested," Fischer replied, making a sour face. Arthur couldn't help but think that he did sort of look like a fish when he made that face. "Grow up, and then maybe we'll talk."

Ally huffed, but she didn't seem too bothered; she never did. "Whatever. I had a feeling you played for the other team anyway."

"I do _not_ ," Robert grumbled, going into a Beethoven piece. "I don't play for any team right now. I'm focused on my studies—something _you_ should be doing more of, if your playing is as bad as the rest of your grades are."

"I play just _fine_ , thank you!" Ally spat, hopping off of the piano and going to her cello to show him just how finely she played. Unfortunately, she didn't seem to realize he was teasing her and also didn't get the chance to prove him wrong because Jacobson came in with some of the other students, waving his hands at them and telling them to sit down.

As Arthur went to take his seat, Robert whispered to him, "Clearly, Ally doesn't realize there _are_ homosexuals on the planet. Her gay-dar is ridiculously faulty if she thinks smacking your ass and flirting with me are going to get her laid."

Arthur raised his eyebrows and swallowed thickly. "I don't know what you're talking about. I told you, it's only a rumor, remember?" He winked and smirked at him and went to sit in his seat.

He just wished Jacobson didn't have continuous complaints about Arthur's performance, but he tried to shrug it off.

He tried to.

* * *

He caught Mal in the hallway during his lunch break.

"Mal… can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked, and he hated the way his voice caught in his throat in the middle.

"But of course you can," Mal said, smiling beatifically, with only a waver of concern in her eyes.

Arthur looked around and then mumbled, " _Privately_?"

"Yes, of course," she said, and she led him to her office in the accompanying building. After shutting the door, she took a seat at her desk while Arthur sat down in one of her plush chairs. Sunlight beamed in through the window, casting reflections of the windowpanes on the wine red rug on the floor, and Arthur was momentarily distracted by the painting of the Fragonard replica on the wall. "Arthur, what's wrong?"

"Ah… well…" he mumbled, folding his hands over themselves over and over again. "I… guess Cobb told you about… about me and Eames, right?"

"It's apparently serious between you two now," Mal replied, nodding. "He did tell me that. Why, are you arguing?"

"No, no… I… No, it's not that. Things are actually really _great_ between us, but…"

"But what, mon cher?" she asked, leaning forward to put her hand on his knee.

"I…" Arthur hesitated and then just decided to come out with it. "I know it's not… _permanent_."

"What on earth do you mean by that?" Mal asked, smiling sympathetically.

Arthur sighed, shutting his eyes for a long moment so that he could relieve some of the pressure building there. "Well, after the concert, Eames is going to go away. He's going to go into the studio, and he's going to go out on tour, and he's going to make appearances at movie premieres and start acting in television shows and in between all that he's going to be writing new songs and practicing… He's going to be _gone_ , Mal, and he's not going to have time to be in a stupid, secret romance with some college kid he met on a whim. After the concert, this is all going to be _over_ … and I don't know what to do about that."

He bit down on his bottom lip, his heart wrenching in his chest to the point he was sure he couldn't breathe for a second.

" _Oh_ , Arthur, that's not true. I mean, yes, you may not get to see him very often, but it's the time you have together that counts, and I'm sure he would make the time to come see you when he could. I don't get to see Dom very often at all because he's constantly on the road, but when he's with me, all of that time without him doesn't matter. I love him, Arthur, and if you and Eames love each other like you think you do, then you'll manage."

"…but Mal, it's not the same as you and Cobb… If you and Cobb got caught by the paparazzi, your private life would probably be ruined, but your whole life wouldn't get flushed down the toilet. If Eames and I were seen together even just having coffee together, rumor could get around that he's having a secret homosexual affair. He'd be on the cover of all the tabloid magazines and people would start to hate him, and then he wouldn't be able to play anymore, and I can't do that to him, Mal, because music is his _passion_ and I know how that _feels_ and I—"

He stopped himself when he realized he'd been getting progressively more frantic and had to take a deep breath because he could feel the prickle of tears on his lashes.

"Arthur," she said softly, rubbing his knee as he dropped his head into one hand.

"Why would he want to be with someone he can't even see, Mal? What kind of life is it when we can just manage to see each other for maybe one afternoon at random, have sex, and move on? That's not a relationship, Mal… That's…" Arthur ran his hand over his hair, sighing in defeat. "That's a glorified booty call."

Mal moved her hand from his knee to his face, eyebrows furrowing. "It is not that, Arthur, it isn't. I know exactly how you're feeling, but I can tell you that that's not how it is. Cobb and I met and started a relationship rather quickly, and we did have quite a few trials as his career started to take off. We had a lot of arguments over how life was going to be when he was spending his time in the spotlight. I didn't want to sacrifice my career for his. I didn't want to be followed by paparazzi. I didn't want to be known only as Dominic Cobb's girlfriend or wife. I wanted to be my own person, and for a while, I'm sure Dom was not happy about that. I'm sure he wanted to believe that us loving one another was enough and was all we needed, but I made him realize that I had my own passions and interests just like his music, and he changed his mind. I told him that I wouldn't ask him to give up his music for me, and he actually told me that he would if I asked him. That's how I knew how much he loved me."

"How—How do you know he wasn't just trying to get you to say that you'd stop your career on his behalf? How do you know he wasn't—"

"Arthur," she said, dropping her hand to his shoulder and squeezing it. "Not everyone is trying to manipulate you. Cobb would never ask me to do that because I told him that I wouldn't ask him to do it for me."

"…Oh…" Arthur said, swallowing. He hadn't realized he'd made the attempt to claim manipulation, but that was certainly what he'd been doing. He felt like such a jerk for trying to fuck up Mal's relationship, even if he hadn't done it consciously.

"Eames cares about you. I could tell by the way he looked when he talked about you, and I know that by how much you're worrying about this you care about him too. I'm aware that the two of you haven't been together nearly as long as Dom and I had, but if this is real, if this is serious and true, then the both of you will be willing to make sacrifices for one another. It may not always be happy or perfect, but it's the time spent together that matters—not the time spent apart."

Arthur allowed a little relief to settle into his shoulders, happy that Mal could at least understand what he was going through. He wasn't entirely sure if she was right about sacrifices and time spent together, but the idea that she might have been was enough to make him feel a little bit better.

"Thanks… Mal," he said, sighing. "I'm glad I can talk to you about all of this. I mean, maybe I've been overreacting just a little bit, but I've been a little stressed what with Jacobson on my case and—"

"What is he on your case about?" Mal asked, tilting her head to the side.

"I… I don't actually know. I mean, he keeps telling me that I'm playing sloppily and threatening to take me out of first chair, and I keep worrying he's going to take away my solo performance at S.O.S.," Arthur explained, a bit at a loss. "Robert Fischer said that my playing was fine… He… he said that he thought that Jacobson was treating me differently because of all the gay rumors going around about me. I tried to tell him that he was being ridiculous, but I don't… I don't know if maybe he's right or not."

"He's discriminating against you for being a homosexual?" Mal asked, fire escaping in her eyes, and she looked absolutely livid.

"Well, I don't know for sure," Arthur said quickly before she could go storming out to find him and give him a piece of her mind. "He never said anything like that… It's just that he's been treating me differently since these rumors started circulating, and unless my playing really is sloppy, I don't see any other reason why he would say such a thing. I haven't even told anyone whether these rumors are true or not though. It's kind of stupid to make an opinion off of someone over a _rumor_. I mean, they've spread rumors about me for _years_ , and it never bothered him before."

He saw Mal's eyes fall to his lap where he'd instinctively wrapped one hand around his other wrist, and when he noticed all he could do was tighten his grip there defensively.

"Do you think I should ask him about it?" Arthur asked awkwardly. "I mean, I doubt he would tell me even if he was, but…"

"I will sit in on your next practice, and if I see suspicious activity, I will definitely talk to him myself," Mal told him. "I'm so sorry he's been treating you this way, Arthur. I had no idea."

"It's fine… I'm not all that concerned, but I don't want to lose everything I've worked for just because I like guys… and I mean, I don't even know if I can properly be considered a homosexual. I've never been with anyone before Eames at _all_. I'd never even been kissed. I've never been attracted to anyone else, or at least I hadn't allowed myself to be. I could be able to be attracted to girls too, couldn't I?"

"Whether you are or you aren't, whether you're a homosexual or not, that is absolutely none of his business, and he shouldn't treat you differently because of it. No one should."

"Well… not everyone feels that way… That's why Eames keeps me a secret," Arthur mumbled, making a move to stand. "Thanks, Mal. I think I'm going to be all right. I'll let you know if I need help with anything else."

"My office door is always open for you, mon cher," Mal said, standing and giving him a warm hug. "Don't be afraid to express your worries to Eames either, Arthur. Believe it or not, he may be feeling similar things that you are."

"I doubt that. Eames never worries about anything," Arthur said, smiling a little fondly in spite of himself.

"Everyone has worries, Arthur. Some are just better at hiding theirs than others."

Arthur left her office with the words still ringing in his ears.

Was that true?

Maybe Eames was freaking out just as much as he was…

No, that couldn't be.

* * *

"So, how long are you going to keep playing this game with that guy Arthur?" Nash asked after Eames climbed back into the van to head back to his hotel .The interview had gone splendidly, but Eames wasn't necessarily prepared for _more_ questions.

"What the fuck are you talking about? It's not a game at all," Eames spat. "I'm serious about him, and he's serious about me. I thought I made that clear."

"How can you be _serious_ about a guy you just met?" Nash asked around a cigarette, raising an eyebrow.

"Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight? Not much of romantic, are you, Nash."

"Teasing me is not necessary," Nash replied, lounging in his seat and blowing smoke towards the ceiling. "I know Cobb blathers on about true love when it comes to Mal—no offense, Cobb."

"What's offensive about true love?" Cobb asked, squinting at Nash, but when he didn't answer he busied himself with whatever he was doing on his phone.

Nash shrugged and looked back at Eames. "I'm not talking about that. Love is love, but serious relationships are different. Love's involved, yeah, but that's not all. What I'm asking you is, how can you expect to continue to have a serious relationship with this guy when you're leaving with the rest of us after the S.O.S. concert to probably see him infrequently if at all?"

"What? I—that's stupid. Of course we'll see each other."

"Yeah?" Nash asked, sucking on his cigarette before continuing with, "When?"

"Whenever I bloody feel like it," Eames growled, and he knew he was getting agitated far too quickly, but he couldn't stop himself. "In my off time, I can come see him, or I can have him come see me."

"Oh, yeah, and you just showing up in this town, or this guy constantly being flown in on Saito's private planes won't rouse any suspicion."

Eames was rendered momentarily speechless by this bit of information, even though he'd always sort of known it. Still, when Nash caught on, he did put on his smartass little grin that Eames hated so much. "I'm just saying," he said even though clearly he was trying to get under Eames's skin. He absolutely _had_ to be. "I mean, I guess you could always just see him when you're in town like Cobb does with Mal. You know, that and maybe a Christmas and New Years—well, no not New Years because we're performing this year. You could call him I guess, but you'd have to make sure that the room or the phone wasn't bugged and that no one was spying on you while you had your little 'you-hang-up-first-no-you-hang-up-first' chats. Still, we _all_ know that phone sex is not nearly as good as the real deal. I'd say you could bang floozies on the side, but if you're all _serious_ like you say you are, you certainly can't do _that_."

Eames fought back the urge to snarl at him and possibly wring his greasy little neck. "I didn't say it would be easy, but—"

"I guess you could always ask him to come along as your little kept boy and keep him in your room as your precious little trophy, but your trailer is the first place the paparazzi will search and—"

"If you don't shut up right now, you'll be having your next month or so of meals through a drinking straw," Eames rumbled, clenching his fists on his knees.

"I was just saying," Nash said lightly, choosing the moment to break eye contact with Eames and look out the window, letting go of the fight before it really did get out of hand and give the paparazzi something to take pictures of. "You've got to admit that it's not really likely you'll be seeing much of him after this though. I just think it's a little cruel to make him fall for you and then leave him hanging over the edge of that cliff with no one to catch him. My last girlfriend screwed me over that way, and it sucks is all, and Arthur's actually an all right guy. For the life of me, I can't figure out why he likes you, but he does, and don't you think using the l-word will ultimately devastate him?"

Eames wanted to punch Nash's lights out, but he couldn't lift one finger to harm him because his words had cut through him like a fucking samurai sword.

The problem was that Nash had a pretty good point.

Nash had a good point and now Eames was feeling like a complete jackass for what he'd done. He'd gone and bared his soul and made the relationship into what it was when Arthur had actually had perfectly good reason for why he distanced himself from Eames and convinced himself that Eames had been lying to him. Arthur had been protecting himself the whole time, and now Eames had gone and convinced him to take the plunge off of the cliff when he had every intention of splitting town to pursue his other goals.

 _Fuck_ , why hadn't he realized that before?

It was because he'd been too self-focused, that was why. All he'd given a damn about was his own feelings, and even if he'd felt like they were beautiful and perfect and his admission of his feelings were for the both of them, it was only because he'd wanted Arthur all to himself. He'd wanted to be able to love Arthur and say that he loved him and hear him say it, and he'd wanted to be gentle and sweet with him and hold him while they slept and kiss him awake in the mornings and see those dimples appear on his cheeks when he did it.

He hadn't thought of their time coming to an end simply because he hadn't wanted to believe it ever would. He'd been having a far too glorious time, and now it was coming back to bite him in the ass… and that would have been _fine_ except for the fact that this time he wasn't going to be the only one getting hurt because of his stupidity.

This was a disaster.

What the fuck was he supposed to do? He didn't want to hurt Arthur, but at the moment he wasn't exactly able to come up with an option that wouldn't. He not only didn't like the idea of being apart from Arthur ever, didn't like the idea of devastating him by making him wait around for someone he might never see… He also couldn't stand the idea of breaking up with Arthur. Why couldn't they just have had a rampant couple of weeks of hot sex and leave each other in the past without worry or complaint? Why did he have to go and fall in love with the little twat?

He sat in silence for the entirety of the drive back to the hotel and for a couple of hours still laid in his room thinking about it until there was a knock.

Horrified, he expected it to be Arthur and already had no idea what to say, but instead it was Yusuf.

"Oh, it's you," he said with more than a little relief. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the van with you earlier, you know," Yusuf said flatly. "I know the fans tend to forget I exist, but if you do then I'll certainly start to believe I might just be invisible. I had a feeling you'd be pretty upset over your little 'discussion' with Nash earlier."

Normally Eames would have come up with some kind of snarky comment to tease Yusuf with, but he just didn't have the energy for it. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Yusuf," he said tiredly, stepping aside to let him into the room. "I'd hate to lose him, but I'd hate even more to _hurt_ him. He's a lot more fragile then he lets people believe, and I don't want to destroy him. I do really and truly love the boy."

"Well, I've been trying to think up a solution to your dilemma," Yusuf said, smiling. "I had a feeling that since I'm not emotionally involved with the idea, I could think more clearly on it than you can."

"Even as a musician, you're always the scientist, aren't you, Yusuf?" Eames sighed.

"Music _is_ a science. It's a science and an art which is exactly why everyone likes music," Yusuf replied simply, nodding. "Anyway, I think I've come up with something. Now, I have to tell you right now that there is no way you and he _aren't_ going to be hurt, but surely the most painless method would be preferred. A person would rather have a sprained ankle than to have their foot chopped off."

"Ah… yes, I suppose so, unless they were out for insurance money," Eames said. Yusuf always had the weirdest way of explaining things. "Go on."

"You've got to get him to dump you," Yusuf said humbly, as if it was that simple.

"What? No—I… I don't want him to—"

"If you don't want to completely devastate him by leaving him hanging or by breaking up with him, you're going to have to get him to break up with you. His sadness will be replaced by anger, and he'll probably have revenge sex with someone else. As Arthur as clearly demonstrated, he gets quite attached to the people he has angry sex with."

"You're a right bastard, Yusuf."

"It's either that, or the only other thing I could think of."

"…and what is that? Should I ask?"

"I'd probably be put on the guillotine if Nash, Cobb, or any of our fans heard me say this, but if you want to be with Arthur, you'd probably have to quit the band."

The air between them was silent and tense for a long minute, and Eames could tell by the uncomfortable look on Yusuf's face that he was afraid Eames was actually considering it.

Truth be told, he _was_.

"You think if I quit the paparazzi would just leave me alone?" Eames said skeptically. "They'd be on me like white on rice."

"Yeah, but that limelight would eventually fade. People would stop caring," Yusuf said with a shrug. "If you quit, I'm claiming that I knew absolutely nothing about this. I knew I shouldn't have said it."

"I… I can't just quit. I love Arthur, really I do, and I'd do anything for him, but… I have a responsibility in this group now. It's not just about what I love to do. It's about you guys too, and I damn sure owe Cobb that much for pulling me off the streets in the first place. I… I can't make this decision right now. I have to think about it."

"Well, you could always just come out of the closet. Then it wouldn't be weird to see you with another man."

Eames stared at Yusuf in shock. "You think I could just _do_ that? It's risky."

"I thought you liked to live precariously, Eames. That's what being a rock star is all about."

Eames ran a hand through his hair, staring at the wall behind Yusuf rather than directly at him. "I have a feeling I'm going to be up doing a lot of thinking this evening," he mumbled.

"Would you like for me to fetch us some coffee?"


	10. Track Ten: This Business is Killing Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Ten: This Business is Killing Me

"Arthur! Fuck, Arthur, open the door! Open up, seriously!"

Arthur was shaken out of his sleep by a pounding on his front door. He'd fallen asleep practicing, having set down his violin to just rest his eyes for a few moments, but if his aching neck and the daylight streaming through the window were any indication, he'd slept in the chair for at least an hour or two.

It was Saturday, and he hadn't seen Eames in days, but his first instinct was to think it was him when there was a rapping on his door. However, the voice muffled behind the wood was very clearly female, very clearly Ariadne's. He was a little disappointed, hoping Eames would come to him, since after all of the things he'd been thinking of, how security had almost run him down, and how he'd interrupted Radical Notion's session, he'd been too nervous to go to him first, but he figured whatever Ariadne had to say, it must have been important since she was shouting.

He opened the door, momentarily blinded by the sunlight before saying, "Ariadne, _what_? I've got to practice. I've got rehearsal in a couple of hours, and there's going to be cameras and reporters there this time." Actually, he had no idea what time it even was. He hadn't even been practicing so he felt like a liar.

"Sit the hell down!" she shouted, shoving her way inside and going directly for the remote on the coffee table.

"What? What's going on?" Arthur asked, shutting the door. He would call Ariadne out on her rudeness at some other time.

She turned on the television and started flipping channels. "Every news station is talking about it, but just—Arthur you don't even—Here. Watch."

It was Eames on screen and he appeared to be on Arthur's school grounds. He recognized the auditorium. He'd heard that they'd been doing some interviews there so that they could talk to Mal and Jacobson about their part in the S.O.S. benefit. Mal had even asked Arthur to do an interview this afternoon, but he'd declined.

"Yeah, he's on television, Ariadne," Arthur said flatly. "It's not that exciting. He's been on TV before you know. You've got all of Radical Notion's interviews on tape."

"Shut up and just watch!" Ariadne commanded and turned up the volume, never looking away from the screen.

"This morning," the reporter said, "one of our correspondents got speak with everyone's favorite guitarist, Eames of Radical Notion, about the Save Our Songs benefit concert which sold out every ticket in a mere three hours. We got some surprising answers from him, and we're not just talking about the concert."

The screen cut to the interview where the interviewer said, "So, last year you guys' album, Caught in the Wires, won four Grammys. Are you guys planning on making a repeat performance at the Grammys this year?"

"Well, I certainly hope so," Eames said, laughing. "We've got to record a new album before we can do that though, don't we?"

"Have you guys started writing new songs for your next album yet?"

"Ah… oh, yes, we have, we've got a lot of them actually. Cobb's really stingy about the ones he likes the most though, so sorting through them is what takes the longest. I think the next album is going to be a bit of a change of pace from our usual. You keep playing the same thing and it starts to lose its effect. I was told that I should let the music speak for itself, and I think that's a damned—oh, sorry, I shouldn't say that on camera should I—a good idea. We will be performing a few of our new songs at the S.O.S. concert this weekend though, so everyone can look forward to that. We will of course play some of our standards as well, and I'm hoping everyone sings along."

"Are there any of the new songs you're particularly excited about?"

"Well, naturally I'm excited about all of them because I helped write them and I'm a bit of an attention whore, in case no one has noticed."

Both he and the interviewer laughed.

Eames continued, "But yeah, there's one I'm particularly excited about, called _No Fault of Mine_ that we've been practicing just recently that I think everyone is really going to enjoy. It's a bit more toned down than our previous songs, and I think we might get a whole new audience with this one, though I hope the old fans will like it just as much. It's a love song, but I don't think it pulls any punches like the cheesy stuff you hear on the radio nowadays. It's _real_."

"Oh, really? Is this love song about anyone in particular? A past lover perhaps? Personal experience?"

"Well," Eames said, adjusting himself in his seat. "I can't really speak on Cobb's behalf since he wrote the words, but I do believe he wrote the words for lovers in general. It's about falling in love even when you don't want to. No one ever plans to fall in love after all, it just sort of _happens_. It's unexpected and it's as grand as it is bloody terrifying."

"Did you write the music on behalf of anyone?"

"Are you trying to get me to say I'm in a relationship with someone?" Eames asked, grinning cheekily.

The reporter laughed. "There are rumors circulating that you're currently involved with folk-pop sensation of the indie scene, Zora Phillips."

"Well, no, I'm not. She's a friend of mine, and she's quite the talented young lady and I hope she goes far, but I've never been interested in her romantically. I'm gay."

The reporter was speechless for a moment, and Arthur for one couldn't blame her. He couldn't see her face, but he was sure her jaw was as slack as his was, her eyes just as wide.

"Well, you don't have to act so surprised," Eames replied, crossing his legs coolly. "No, I'm not joking about that by the way. Sexuality is nothing to joke about. _No_ , I'm not involved with any of my band mates because that's just disgusting, and no I haven't been living a lie either. I just haven't said anything about it until now because I didn't think it was relevant."

"Is it suddenly relevant now?" she asked, clearly shaken.

"Well… when it comes to my performing, no, not really. I do realize however that there are a lot of boys and girls in the world like me who are afraid to even think about their sexuality, and I thought… See, I thought 'what kind of role model am I if I can't even be myself and not be ashamed of it?' I've gotten bags upon bags of fan letters—and I've read every single one, I swear—about people who look up to me, people who claim one of our songs has changed their life, gotten them to stop cutting, gotten them to get out of abusive relationships, gotten them to realize how bloody fantastic they really are, that kind of stuff, right? Music's all about baring yourself to the ones who are willing to listen, see, and I realized that there are certainly people like me listening to our songs, maybe getting the message, maybe not. I want them to know they're not alone in all this. People are so bloody afraid of being someone—you can't have that fear when you're famous. I think the fear is needless anyway."

"So, you're coming out so that you can help the young people see that it's okay to do so?" she asked, still a little rattled but clearly recovering. "That's a really nice sentiment."

"It's not a sentiment, deary, it's just reality. It's like I said before, you really can't help who you fall in love with. I just happened to fall in love with a man. There wasn't anything I could do about it. It just _happened_."

"So, are you currently in a relationship with a man now then?"

"Ah, see, now _that_ is not relevant to our discussions," Eames replied, still beaming as casually as he had for the entire interview, "and I'm afraid I'm out of time to talk to you. I do hope everyone comes to see the show, and I hope no one riots too severely. I've got to go and get chewed out by my manager now."

The video went back to the first reporter then. "Internet blogs are already blowing up over Eames's shocking reveal—"

Ariadne shut off the television and turned to stare at Arthur, as if he had some sort of explanation for what he'd just seen.

"I thought he said he didn't _want_ anyone to know he was gay," Ariadne said. "He didn't want the shit storm that would come down on him if he told everyone. He _did_ say that, didn't he? I didn't dream that. I know I didn't dream that."

"I… I haven't seen him in a couple of days. I've been too busy putting some finishing touches on the songs, and I—I had no idea, no _idea_ that he was going to do this." Arthur should have felt proud of him, surely, but he couldn't even think of that at the moment. He wasn't sure why his first reaction was absolutely paralyzing _fear_ but it was.

He was _terrified_.

Why hadn't Eames talked to _him_ about this before doing it? Now that they knew he was gay, they were going to be following him with much more fervor than they previously had, and Arthur had already been walking on eggshells before. He was sure, _positive_ that if Arthur even made one attempt to come see Eames or the other way around, they'd be found out. Was this what Eames fucking _wanted_? To confirm the rumors circulating about Arthur and also tack on that he was fucking with a famous rock star? To make sure that Jacobson absolutely _despised_ him and got rid of his solo? To swarm him with reporters and classmates all asking him questions?

"Oh, fuck…" Arthur murmured, suddenly feeling dizzy with the information washing over him. "I think I'm going to be _sick_. Why would he do this to me? Why wouldn't he talk to me about it first? Fuck… As if I wasn't stressed out enough, now suddenly he's doing _this_ …"

"Arthur," Ariadne said gently, placing a hand on his back, and that was really all it took before everything just swelled up in him and he started to cry.

He couldn't remember ever crying in front of Ariadne, not even during his 'freak outs' in the past, not even when he'd fallen off of his bicycle as a child and broken his leg (he had screamed though)… but it came spilling out unexpectedly. He'd gotten rid of that lid on his emotions after all, and it seemed that recently they had been making up for lost time by intensifying to embarrassing new levels.

He did _not_ need this right now. He had enough pressure with the concert only a week away, with the rumors and the constant stares, with Jacobson breathing down his neck, with the thoughts already plaguing him when he tried to sleep at night. His life had been so peacefully predictable before all of this had happened with Eames, and he was unbelievably upset both at Eames and at himself for letting himself get sucked in so deeply and completely. He couldn't seem to get _any_ quality sleep. He'd gotten maybe two hours of sleep in his bed over the past few days _total_.

Maybe that was why he couldn't stop himself from sobbing. He was just so _tired_ and so _stressed_ and so _scared_ of what was inevitably coming his way. He had to get it out somehow, and he wished he could go crying and screaming to Eames, but he couldn't. He just _couldn't_ because Eames had gone and said such a thing, said it so fucking _carelessly_ like the information wasn't going to harm anybody else, and even if he was on the school grounds not too far away, he couldn't go to him and let him kiss away his tears because he had screwed up _everything_ with two little words.

"He should have told me that he was going to do this," Arthur wailed, letting Ariadne pull him into her arms. "Fuck… How could he just go and do whatever he wants? He knows what's going to happen now!"

"Maybe it's for the best, Arthur," Ariadne tried. He could tell that she was at a bit of a loss, but at least she was attempting to help. "I mean, if he gets out the story in his own words, then people can't make up their own. He's not hiding anymore, and that's a good thing."

"My private life is fucking _ruined_ ," Arthur whimpered into Ariadne's shoulder. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Clearly, you guys need to talk about this," Ariadne said, petting his back affectionately.

"How am I supposed to do that when he basically told the paparazzi 'here I am, come get me'? Fuck, I should be finding him and kicking his ass…" He'd managed to calm down, but tears were still releasing themselves as if there were faucets behind his eyelids rather than eyes. "I just don't know why he changed his mind about all of this… Everything was going just _fine_ the way it was. Why does he have to go and fuck things up when they're fine?"

Ariadne shushed him and tried to be supportive, but there wasn't much that she could do. He feared he must have been overreacting again because he just didn't _know_. He'd never been in a relationship at all. Were these the kinds of things that just _happened_? Well, no, of course not, but maybe these kinds of things happened when in relationships with famous people?

Why did it have to be Eames?

* * *

Eames was swarmed by interviewers for the entirety of the morning, only able to catch glances at the slightly stunned, clearly troubled faces of his band mates in between the constant haze of questions buzzing around him constantly. He felt horrible for pulling their attention when they were supposed to be interviewing some of the students; that was the whole point of them doing interviews at the _school_ … and truthfully, he'd considered doing it another time, considered coming out at the concert or at least right before or right after, but… well… he felt _safer_ doing it in a place like that. He may have been getting overwhelmed by questions, but at least people weren't throwing things at him or booing through his guitar solos.

…Though, that might happen now, actually, he thought.

Maybe this had been a bad idea, he thought.

Maybe he should have thought of that before outing himself to the world when he'd originally never intended to do that…

…but then he thought about what he had said, the things he'd said about the other people in the world, too afraid to come out because of lack of acceptance. He thought of Arthur who'd actually trained himself not to feel anything _at all_ to keep himself safe. There was no telling how many kids were just like Arthur, bottling everything up and panicking only when they were alone with no one to help them. Even if he was going to have to sacrifice a little safety, had to deal with some hate from his fans and non-fans, it was worth it if just one person was able to find solace in the idea that not only were they not alone, but someone that loads of people knew and admired was just like them. He could afford security after all. He shouldn't have been acting like such a coward.

Still, when students started making their way in for rehearsal, he did try to make himself scarce, hiding out in a bathroom and then later in an empty classroom after he was found. He'd thankfully brought a change of clothes for when he wasn't doing interviews so he could sneak by mostly unnoticed. Still, quite a few interviewers were still on the prowl for him, so he kept away from windows and doors, crouched down in a corner behind one of the long conference tables in the back where he could smoke in peace.

He sat like that for a good half-hour before he got a text message from Yusuf that unexpectedly dropped his heart to his knees.

All it said was: Arthur's here.

Had Arthur seen the news? Of course he had, and even if he hadn't someone surely would have told him. He wasn't sure why Arthur knowing made him feel concerned, but something about the idea that he was there was enough to make his blood run cold. Still, he sent Yusuf the number of the room he was currently hiding out in and told him to send Arthur there if he could get the chance to talk to him.

He sat back then, head leaning against one of the plush computer chairs behind the desk, and waited.

* * *

Arthur hadn't wanted to come to rehearsal. After he'd ceased his tears, he'd been so tired that he would have been content to sleep on Ariadne's lap for the rest of the day, but there wasn't much he could do. He needed to be at rehearsal since Jacobson already had enough of a problem with him. Thankfully, Ariadne at least tagged along for support.

Fischer was the only one who noticed Arthur's red-rimmed eyes, asked him quietly if he was all right, and said nothing else about it. Arthur feared he'd have difficulty playing when there were cameras all around, but he knew it would be much more difficult at the concert when he could actually _see_ the faces watching and judging him. He sat back in his chair and took a few deep breaths, shut his eyes, counted his way in, and started to play with the rest of the orchestra. Playing with the other students was easy; they were all in the same boat as he was and knowing that put him at ease somewhat (though it wasn't the only thing currently plaguing him).

It was when it was time for him to rehearse his solo that he got exceptionally on edge. When he took his spot on the stage, he found himself suddenly frozen under the lights and in front of the cameras.

…and suddenly it occurred to him that maybe Jacobson was right about his playing and he didn't deserve the solo after all.

Arthur shut his eyes and tried to banish the thought, tried to fight off the queasiness and the bile rising in his throat… but the problem was that when he tried to think of Eames, he didn't hear his words of encouragement. He only saw the interview where he'd subsequently went out of his way to start sabotaging their relationship without even knowing he was doing it. It made him even more sick and more nervous, and the lights were too bright and too hot and the sound of the cameras was too loud and the voices around him were mocking him, fucking _mocking_ him, and he could feel every eye on him from his fellow peers—and it was like they all knew, they all knew that he was with Eames and they were judging him and hating him and—

There was a twang sound as his top string snapped, the bottom half smacking him in the face while the top have slashed his fingers.

He hadn't even started to play.

Sometimes he wondered if his violin could tell when he needed to run screaming from a room. "S—sorry," he squeaked and stumbled off stage. The side of his face burned w here the string had hit, the skin on his fingers screaming for the exact same reason, but he didn't care about that. He just wanted to get off of the stage and away from every accusing eye.

He did manage to catch Jacobson mumble, "Perhaps you should have been taking better care of your instrument," before he escaped the auditorium.

He wished he hadn't. It just made him feel worse.

* * *

In the hall, he sat, restringing his violin. He was having a hell of a time getting his hands to cooperate, but he did finally manage to get it strung. It was only after he'd accomplished his goal that he realized why it had been so difficult.

His hands were shaking.

"Fuck," he grumbled, placing the violin back in its case to tune later. He wanted it to stay safe from any other damage he might do to it. Even though he'd been grateful for the diversion, he couldn't help but feel guilty towards it. He hadn't broken a string since he was nine.

"I'm really starting to slip up," he whispered hysterically, pulling the case close to his chest as he seemed to be doing a lot lately. He bit down on his bottom lip and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to quash the madness bubbling in his stomach, but he continuously felt worse and worse, and he just wished that someone would do something.

"You're bleeding."

Arthur's head jerked upward at the sound of the voice, panic rolling violently through him at the fear that it would be Jacobson or… well, really anyone. He didn't like people seeing him in the middle of a meltdown, and he was having it at _school_ , which he hadn't done since freshman year back when he was being hazed, so he was even more desperate for some solitude.

It wasn't Jacobson though. It was Yusuf, dressed in a hooded sweatshirt from the school's bookstore in the attempt to be less noticed. He apparently wasn't terribly concerned however because he didn't even have the hood up. Arthur remembered how Yusuf had complained about never being noticed in the band. Maybe he'd been entirely serious.

"What?" Arthur asked, hoping to get him to leave so that he could bury his face in his knees and scream until he passed out or at least lock himself in the bathroom and—

No. He promised himself he wouldn't do that again.

"Room 28. East Building," Yusuf said and turned on his heel to walk away.

"Is that some kind of code?" Arthur asked pathetically.

"Nope," Yusuf replied and reentered the auditorium. "By the way, for this information, I expect an introduction with your pretty friend that accompanied you this morning."

The door clapped shut behind him, leaving Arthur alone, and after a few moments he understood.

Eames was there.

Eames was waiting for him.

All of his anger and resentment had been momentarily forgotten. All he wanted was to see Eames and have him tell him that things were going to be all right. He _needed_ it. He didn't care if he looked frantic and strung out as he bolted across campus, ignoring everyone who gave him a casual glance in the process. No one cared where he was going anyway.

He wasn't even quiet when he slammed the door behind him, sweating and out of breath from his sprint. He threw his violin case onto one of the conference tables and was ready to scream when he didn't immediately see Eames, but then he spotted the trail of smoke at the back of the room, and Arthur took the steps up two at a time until he spotted Eames hunched there in the corner, staring with wide eyes like he had been expecting someone else.

"Arthur, you're bleeding—" Eames started to say, but Arthur interrupted by tackling him.

There, on the floor, lying on top of Eames, Arthur finally took the time to slow down, comforted into his wits by Eames's warmth. "How could you do that?" he asked quietly.

Thankfully, Eames didn't play dumb, and Arthur appreciated it. "I couldn't lie to myself anymore."

"You weren't lying to yourself. You were lying to everyone else."

"I decided not to shy away from who I am. I'm proud of who I am, and I want other people to be proud of themselves as well."

"Bullshit. Why'd you really do it?"

"Darling, your face is going to bleed on my shirt—and your fingers are bleeding too."

Arthur rose off of him, sitting on his waist, finally taking notice of his wounds. "My string snapped," he explained emptily. He'd almost forgotten that he even could bleed. He'd tried to cut out the memory of blood since freshman year.

Eames leaned over Arthur's hand and kissed the fresh wound. "It got you bloody good, didn't it," he said against the skin. "That must have stung like hell."

"I was more concerned with getting as far away from everyone as possible."

Eames looked up at him as if he was reading his thoughts and then leaned in to mouth the blood off of the side of his face. "Oh, love…"

It was like he knew that he was partially the cause, and Arthur couldn't even be angry. He couldn't be angry because Eames sounded so fucking _sorry_ , and it made Arthur's heart ache. He didn't know when he'd become so weak and so dependent on Eames, but all he could do was wish that it would never stop. He sucked so badly at being himself on his own. Eames was the only person he could trust with himself.

Arthur tilted his head so that his lips met with Eames's, and Eames didn't make any move to stop him, bringing his hand up to brush against the back of his neck. They licked at each other's teeth, hands not roaming any further than the neck until neither of them had a single gasp of breath left. When they broke apart, Eames pressed his forehead to Arthur's and whispered, "We shouldn't do this here. Someone might find us here."

"What difference does it make? Everyone is already judging you," Arthur gasped. He left the fact that everyone already hated and judged he himself unsaid for the moment.

"I said that I wouldn't fuck you here. I told my band mates that I wouldn't risk—"

"You also said that you wouldn't come out of the closet any time soon. Don't try to talk to me about promises," Arthur growled, reaching between them to undo the fly on Eames's jeans. "I'm _really_ pissed off at you about that, I hope you know."

"I thought that you would be proud of me."

"You're _killing_ us," Arthur said sharply, and Eames's expression shifted to one Arthur didn't quite understand. Arthur distracted himself from the look by pushing his own pants down his thighs, sucking his own fingers into his mouth, and then working himself open.

This wasn't something he had planned to do, but somehow he was getting caught on the idea that they might not get another chance. If they were destined for failure, Arthur figured he might as well enjoy the fall from grace before he hit the ground.

He wrapped his arms around Eames's neck and impaled himself without hesitation, and Eames made a choked sound that Arthur silenced with his own mouth. He worked himself into a rhythm, rough and unforgiving, a lot like their first time. He didn't want gentle, loving touches. He just wanted to get out all of his anxiety and anger, fuck himself down on Eames's cock until he was raw and sore, burning with the pain-pleasure and the hazy non-thoughts that accompanied it. He bit at Eames's bottom lip, scraped his teeth along his jugular light enough not to leave a mark, and when Eames started to moan, Arthur threw a hand over his mouth. Eames took Arthur's fingers in between his lips and sucked on them, hollowing out his cheeks obscenely, and Arthur wasn't sure if he wanted to climax or punch him in the face.

The room became thick with the heat and the fervor of their movements, only the sounds of his breathing, the wet sucking sound from Eames's mouth, the sound of blood rushing through his ears, and the sound of skin smacking against skin as Eames thrust up and Arthur shoved himself down… and it _hurt_. It hurt fantastically, and Arthur was dizzy with it. He completely forgot about everything except the way Eames's tongue was rolling over Arthur's wounded fingers, lapping at the little bit of blood still lingering there, except for the feel of Eames's cock slamming against his prostate with every shock of white behind Arthur's eyelids.

Eames growled around Arthur's fingers, teeth dragging against the knuckles, and he was coming, body shaking beneath Arthur's hands, and all Arthur could do was take a shuddered breath through his nose, feeling like time had slowed to a stop.

Then it was Eames who was shoving Arthur down onto his back, cleaning him out with his tongue and then slipping his mouth around his still aching and neglected prick, and he only had to go down on him twice before Arthur was swallowing back on sounds and releasing himself. Spent, he felt like he was sinking into the floor and sort of wished that he was. He was just so _tired_.

"You're a lot naughtier than I give you credit for. We're practically in _public_ , darling," Eames teased, grinning a little as he hovered over him. He knelt down and gave Arthur a long kiss, and Arthur could taste everything on those lips of his.

"I'm still mad at you," Arthur breathed when they broke apart. "You should have… talked to me first. You're a real jackass, do you know that?"

"I'm so sorry," Eames whispered and sat back on his knees to pull his jeans and underwear back up. "I didn't think you would be angry… I didn't know…" He meant it. Arthur knew that he meant it.

Arthur turned his head to the side to watch Eames's forgotten cigarette burn out on the carpet.


	11. Track Eleven: Give Me Novacaine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Eleven: Give Me Novacaine

Arthur laid on the floor of that classroom for what felt like hours, listening to the sound of his own breath and the subtle shifts Eames made every few minutes or so. The carpet was uncomfortable, thin and flat against the tile underneath, and since it was the weekend the air conditioning wasn't on in the building (being that classes weren't in session in the East Building), so he was gradually becoming slick and sticky with sweat, but he still didn't move even to pull up his pants for a long time, almost like he was paralyzed in the moment... like he didn't want it to end.

When he finally did move, it was as if in slow motion, and he discovered quite quickly that he was having difficulty looking Eames in the eye as he buttoned up and adjusted his clothing and hair accordingly. "I should go," Arthur mumbled, tugging his shirt down and smoothing imaginary wrinkles. "Some people might get suspicious. I should definitely just…"

"I'm sorry," Eames said quietly. "I should have told you I was going to do that."

"Just do whatever you want, Eames," Arthur replied in frustration, starting down the steps, but Eames was more prepared to move than Arthur was, catching him by the wrist before Arthur had even made it down the third step.

"I mean it," he said sternly. "Don't just walk away from me, Arthur. Tell me what's wrong. Chew me out if you have to. Just, for the love of God, _look_ at me."

"I don't believe in God," Arthur whispered.

"Why is that?" Eames asked calmly, slackening his grip just slightly.

"If God was real, he wouldn't have spent so much time going out of his way to let me down. I can't imagine that someone like God would be able to have the kind of time to torture me, what with all of the other people in the world… I almost thought for a minute that maybe he was, that he _was_ … when you showed up in my life, when you made me feel good about myself… but then you went and fucked me over too… I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was."

"Technically my sexuality being public or not has nothing to do with you," Eames said, agitation just barely lacing his words.

"Bullshit," Arthur hissed, chuckling bitterly. "It has everything do with me, and you and I both know that. Don't even pretend it doesn't."

"Arthur—"

Arthur turned on him then, eyebrows sinking on his forehead, mouth flattening into a thin line for a moment. "Your sexuality has everything to do with me because that's what you fucking use it for. It's for me."

"Sexuality is a self-identifying factor, Arthur," Eames said, letting go of his wrist to place his hand against his jaw instead. "My love is what is for you. _That_ is what I give to you, not sexuality."

"Then why the fuck did you do it, Eames?" Arthur asked. "Why'd you do it if you love me? You had to have known… You—You _had_ to have known what this was going to do. You're the one who told me what was going to happen if you came out. That was the whole point of keeping it a _secret_. Now everyone is going to be obsessively following you. It'll be even harder for us to see each other without being caught. I don't… I don't _want_ to be on the covers of magazines or awakened out of sleep when reporters come knocking on my door looking for some sort of quote they can take out of context to make me look like a bastard. I don't want people to give me the eye or bombard me with questions. I don't want my teacher to hate me and rob me of my opportunities. Why did you do it, Eames, when you _knew_ all of that?"

"I… I came out so that people wouldn't find it bizarre if they saw me with another man. I did it so that we could be together."

"Did you even think about what that would do to my private life?" Arthur asked, voice cracking. "Fuck, Eames, I thought you knew how important my privacy was to me. I don't like the spotlight that much. I get really shaken up when I'm put under a fucking microscope, and I… I don't want to be known just for being your fucking boyfriend. I want to be my own person, damn it."

"Did you honestly think we could keep doing all of this sneaking around?" Eames asked, clearly getting fed up. "What did you expect, Arthur? Did you expect us to keep stealing around in the middle of the night to each other's rooms, to fuck and run off before anyone saw us? You thought you could just hide me forever? Are you that bloody ashamed of yourself for loving someone?"

"That's not—That's not what I said at all," Arthur countered, not angry… Not _angry_ , but _hurt_. It hurt in the absolute worst way. "I thought that we could be like Cobb and Mal, that we could—"

"They're going to slip up eventually, Arthur," Eames interrupted. "It's only a matter of time. You know that… and when they come out, it's going to be dramatic, but it's not the same as you and me. When word got around that you and I were together, I wanted everyone to already know that I was gay. I didn't want anyone to accuse you of turning me or anything stupid like that—I just wanted to make it easier for the both of us."

"It's not _going_ to be easier, Eames," Arthur said hopelessly. "Once I got out of school, I thought that maybe we could… that I could…"

"Hide out in my trailers and hotel rooms every night? Wait for me to come to you?" Eames asked. "What? What did you think we could do?"

"I thought that maybe we could have a place—that we could be—that… I don't know what I thought, okay? I hadn't really thought that far ahead, but I thought that if I was out of school and in steady work then it would be… then it would be easier…" He'd gone and caught himself doing the same thing that Eames had been doing, trying to make things _easier_.

"What would be easier?" Eames asked, sounding tired, shoulders slumping.

…and Arthur realized that neither of them had raised their voices for the entire argument. Both of them just sounded _defeated_ … This wasn't how arguments were supposed to be. They were supposed to be angry and shouty—to blow up with words nobody really meant and then to resolve everything with sweet kisses and sex and post-coital apologies later… but that wasn't what was happening. Arthur didn't feel sorry for a single word, and he knew Eames didn't either, and there wasn't anger in any part of it. It was just an empty pit in his stomach, like a realization.

"I thought it would be easier to be with you then."

"Did you believe we'd still be together by then?" Eames asked, voice heartbreakingly hopeful. "Did you really believe it, or are you just saying that now?"

"I didn't know… I don't know… I knew though that I… that I _wanted_ to be with you then. Eames, I—I _love_ you. I meant that when I told you before. I still do…"

"I know that," Eames assured him, and Arthur could see tears pricking at his eyes. He must have noticed the bizarreness of their argument as well, the way it was starting to turn. "I've loved you about as long as I've known you, Arthur… I love you every day more than I did the day before…" He hesitated before saying. "There's a clause after what you've said. You've got something else to say to me, don't you?"

Suddenly Arthur found his voice leaving him, and he uselessly looked around the classroom for it, hands trembling.

"Tell me, Arthur," Eames said, voice thick with tears, and he was shaking too. "Just tell me what's on your mind. Please don't leave me hanging here. Say it. Just _say_ it."

"You know what I'm going to say," Arthur accused, face screwing up as understanding stopped up his sinuses. "You _know_ it, don't you?"

Eames said nothing. He just stared into Arthur's eyes, his visage blurring as Arthur's own eyes became cloudy with tears.

…and Arthur said, "I can't do this, Eames."

"Can't do what?" Eames asked.

"You know what, Eames."

"I would never ask you to stay for my sake," Eames replied hoarsely, allowing one tear to break free and slip down his right cheek. "Maybe… maybe it's better this way. You deserve better than this, Arthur, better than having to sneak around under the radar of everyone just for… just for silly old me."

"So…" Arthur swallowed, tears sticking like dew drops to his eyelashes. "This… This is it then. We're just… done. We're over."

"I… I guess we are," Eames said solemnly.

"I… I'm actually breaking up with you, aren't I…"

"That's ah… that's what I gathered, yes."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, voice a splintering, wobbly mess. "I don't want to… I just _can't_ …"

Eames pulled him into his arms, shushing him, but there was something in the way Eames's hands were trembling that made Arthur believe that he was holding Eames for support as much as the other way around. "You don't have to leave," Eames said desperately. "I can—I can quit the band, and we can just settle down somewhere together and—"

"I would never ask you to do that for me just like I know you wouldn't ask me to do it for you… You know you'd resent me if I made you do that," Arthur said into the fabric of Eames's shirt. "Maybe we're just not… _right_ … Maybe this just isn't the right time…"

Eames buried his face in Arthur's neck. "No… that can't be true… You're lying, you have to be…" he whimpered. Just the pathetic sound of his voice made Arthur's heart crack and break apart.

"I'm sorry, Eames—I—I'm really sorry… If I hadn't been such a fucking desperate—if I hadn't—none of this would have happened if I'd just controlled myself, and I never meant to hurt you, and I never should have—"

"Shut up and never say that again," Eames said, taking Arthur's face in both of his hands. "Don't ever make it sound like you regretted it because if you do, I will just fucking die…"

Arthur exhaled and let Eames press a hard kiss to his lips and then another and another. "Never say it again," Eames commanded, borderline hysteric.

"I'm so sorry," Arthur kept saying, unable to come up with anything more to say, and not capable of it anyway, and when they both ran out of words they just stood there holding each other for a lot longer than they probably should have.

Arthur was the one to break away, and when he did, he ran. He grabbed his violin case and ran as fast away from the room as he had run to it. He ran to the parking lot and sped home, locked himself inside, sat down in the middle of the floor, and _sobbed_.

* * *

When Eames didn't say anything for the entire drive back to the hotel, he wasn't too surprised when Yusuf caught him at the door to his room.

"What happened? Your eyes are red-rimmed," Yusuf said.

Eames sighed and smiled ruefully at him. "Arthur dumped me because I came out on television. He did it to protect his privacy."

"Oh…" Yusuf said. "I—I'm sorry—"

"Don't be," Eames said turning to go in with Yusuf tailing behind him. "It's better for him if we're not together, and you said so yourself that the best thing to do was to get him to break up with me. It's easier for him to move on this way. Besides, at least I didn't dump him, so he'll be all right. He can go have revenge sex with someone else, just like you said, and he'll be over me, and he'll be able to move on." It was physically painful to say.

"Okay… but… what about you, Eames? Will you be all right?" Yusuf asked.

Eames flopped face first down onto his mattress and rolled onto his back. It still smelled like Arthur. How could it fucking _smell_ like him? "I'm an artist, Yusuf. My heart may suffer but my art shall flourish. I've already got ideas for two to three more songs. It'll be great for us."

"Uh-huh," Yusuf said, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, "and when I find you choked to death on your bed sheets, should I just write a song about it?"

"I'm not going to be doing anything of the sort, Yusuf. I'm perfectly _fine_."

"You don't seem fine. In fact, you look like you've been hit by a truck," Yusuf countered.

Well, Eames hadn't believed the lie either.

"Okay, so I'm not fine," Eames said, feeling fresh tears threatening to well up, "but I will be… in time. I'll be all right. It's just a broken heart is all. It's nothing to worry about."

"Are you sure?"

Eames stared up at the ceiling for a long moment before admitting, "Actually, no. My heart is in a million pieces, and I honestly have no idea how to put it back together, but if you don't mind, Yusuf, I'd like to keep saying that I'm okay until I can force myself to believe it, if that's all right with you."

"All right then…"

There was a long, agonizing moment of silence which was entirely too consumed with the memory of Arthur.

"It's bollocks is what it is," Eames continued when the silence roared too loud for him to handle anymore, even though he was sure Yusuf had assumed he was done talking about it and had probably been desperately attempting to concoct another subject they could talk about. "I mean, I went and outed myself to everyone for him, and now I'm going to be hated on and ridiculed… and I don't even have anything to bloody show for it. I understand that he wanted people to leave him alone, but… fuck… He could have at least attempted to see what I was trying to accomplish… I really botched this up spectacularly, didn't I…"

"Believe it or not, there is actually quite a lot of support for you, Eames. I checked out some of the internet blogs on my phone this afternoon. I've seen quite an outpouring of people talking about how proud they are of you and how much it actually means to them," Yusuf said.

"I'm sure there is plenty of hate though as well, isn't there," Eames said flatly.

"Yes, but mostly it's just from old wankers and overly-religious zealots. I generally don't care about anything that comes out of their mouths as I'm sure you know. It's next to impossible to take them seriously."

"Don't be surprised if they make an appearance picketing at the damned concert next weekend," Eames said, rubbing his eyes. "Twats."

Fuck, he used to call Arthur a twat.

"I'd say it seems likely. They'll picket for anything. You'd think they'd have something more productive to do with their time," Yusuf said idly, digging out one of his self-rolled cigarettes (that was probably more than tobacco if Eames knew Yusuf) and lighting it up.

"Let the discrimination and loathing come. There's no way they can harm me anymore than I've already harmed myself. I'm ready for anything they can both figuratively and literally throw at me."

"You do realize that you've put all of us in danger, right?" Yusuf asked, smirking a little. "If you want to travel down a path of self-destruction then that's all well and good, but I certainly hope you don't intend to bring us down with you… Well, you can drag Nash down with you, but at least leave Cobb and me unscathed. You owe us that much for being friends even when you didn't deserve it."

"I'll do what I can," Eames responded with a halfhearted grin, and added, "to drag Nash down with me, that is."

"So, ah… since you and Arthur are kaput, does that mean I can't date his pretty friend? The cute little one with the long chestnut hair and the scarf?" Yusuf asked, disappointment finding its way into the words.

Eames snorted. "Who, Ariadne? She'll probably want me dead after this. It really depends on what plain her love for Radical Notion and her love for Arthur is. I honestly don't know her well enough to know which one she loves more, but I'd almost guarantee it's Arthur."

Every time he said his name he felt his heart squeeze again.

He'd never handled a break up quite so dismally before…

…but then again, he'd never loved anyone like he'd loved Arthur…

For a little while, he'd almost thought that they'd…

" _Ariadne_ , eh? Her parents must have been big fans of Greek mythology."

"That, or perhaps they just like naming their children bizarre names. Maybe she has a brother named Doorhinge, a sister named Kroger, and an iguana named Reginald."

Yusuf laughed, and Eames managed to bark out a chuckle as well, but it made his chest hurt. He couldn't help but think of Arthur's smile, warm and dotted with dimples on each side, face half-pressed into a pillow, hair loose and tumbling around his forehead in not black, but dark brown curls. The corners of his eyes would crinkle in a way that no one but Eames had seen, and he would lean in and press a soft kiss on his lips just because he could, and…

Eames took a deep breath and let it out to keep the tears from welling up again and said, "Well, for the record, she's a huge groupie for us, so you may end up stuck with a squealing fan."

"She's a groupie? Well, that's good. That's bloody fantastic. That means I might actually stand a chance."

"Comb your hair and trim your goatee, stop wearing those baggy clothes, and I bet you can be irresistible to loads of women."

"Who says that I'm not? I'm just an acquired taste is all."

"Like curry," Eames nodded.

"You're so cruel," Yusuf said, "and racist, you wanker."

"I like curry," Eames shrugged.

"That doesn't make it better."

"You're the one who went and made it that way, Yusuf. Curry _is_ an acquired taste, and that's all I meant by it. It wasn't a shot at your ethnicity at all. I don't even know what ethnicity you are, honestly, so it's bloody difficult for me to tease you about it."

"You're a right arsehole, Eames."

"I just got dumped. If you want someone all lovely and sympathetic, go talk to Cobb. I'm sure he can tell you all kinds of sugary stories about his future children and the songs he'll write about them and how he'll get their names tattooed over his heart even though tattooing names on you is bad luck."

"I don't think I'd be particularly interesting in hearing about any of that either, to tell you the truth."

"Neither would I… Honestly though, I don't know Ariadne that way, but I think you two might hit it off. Good luck with that." He caught himself before saying that maybe he could talk to Arthur about it and see if he could get Yusuf the hookup. The idea that he couldn't (or at least shouldn't) speak to Arthur anymore absolutely _blasted_ through him like a gunshot right to his chest.

Yusuf apparently noticed the look on Eames's face as he pulled himself away from the wall to make his exit. "Don't kill yourself. I'll be back later with tons of alcohol to drown your sorrows in," he said warily, walking to the door. "I swear, I'll be back soon so don't do anything drastic."

Yusuf really was far too paranoid for his own good. It probably had a little bit to do with the marijuana that was surely in the rolled cigarette of his.

Still, as soon as it clicked shut, Eames thought aloud, "I wonder what Arthur is doing right now," and he thought that maybe drowning his sorrows in the bathtub would be a better option than drowning in alcohol.

* * *

It turned out Arthur was already out drowning his sorrows.

Ariadne had had to break into his apartment and drag him to Starkey's, getting a blubbering wail of an explanation on the way. As he had expected, she had been under the impression that he was depressed over the fact that he'd frozen up on the stage… Of course, when she brought that up, he felt unbelievably worse and begged her to take him back home. She told him that she wouldn't let him be alone on that night and listen to sad classical music until he was ready to kill himself.

He tried to reiterate to her that he was the one who broke up with Eames, but it hurt too much to say.

So, he was stuck at Starkey's. He always seemed to end up there when he was in distress, and he wondered if he was well on his way to becoming an alcoholic like his father.

Oh, well, he thought, might as well drink away _that_ fear as well.

He was halfway into his third drink when his and Ariadne's table was suddenly occupied by Alisha and her boyfriend, Ally, and Robert Fischer.

"Arthur!" Ally exclaimed, sliding in on one side of him. "Jesus, I was worried about you. You just ran out today. _Damn_ , look at that slash on your cheek. That must have hurt like _hell_."

"I don't want to talk about it," Arthur slurred and shot-gunned the rest of his glass.

"Jacobson was so pissed when you ran out," Fischer said. "At least, he was until Mal got to him. She chewed him a new one, I hope you know. I wish you could have been there."

"I wish I'd seen it too," Arthur said and raised his hand to signal to the bartender of the evening, Mia, that he wanted another. "Might've added a little light to the worst day of my life."

"The day's not over yet," Alisha said, grinning mischievously. "You never know what could happen."

"I'll buy you a hooker if you like," Alisha's boyfriend, an exchange student from the UK with a purple Mohawk named Charlie, said. His accent made Arthur's heart ache even more, so he buried his face in his arms.

"What's his problem?" Ally asked Ariadne. "It's not just the whole freezing up thing is it?"

"Subtle, Ally," Ariadne said flatly.

"Someone get me another goddamned _drink_ ," Arthur complained, banging his fist on the tabletop.

"Yes, your highness," Fischer said as he stood, and Ariadne glared at him. "Just because he's upset and embarrassed doesn't mean he has to be rude," he scoffed and wandered over to the bar.

Thankfully, everyone seemed to get the hint that Arthur didn't want to hear other people talk about it anymore than he wanted to talk about it, and the conversation switched in another direction. He sat quietly, downing as many beers as he could while listening to quite a few stories he'd already heard before and some he hadn't. The drunker he got, the easier it got to smile and not think about Eames, and he was all for that.

Soon enough, the whole table was pretty drunk, and Ariadne was up on the stage wailing out a Fleetwood Mac song with Ally on back-up vocals. Alisha and Charlie danced to it, alcohol apparently warping their sense of hearing while they spun and sang along. It left Arthur and Robert at the table alone.

"So," Robert said, and it was astounding how sober he could sound even when he was most definitely not. "What's really bothering you anyway?"

Arthur hunched over his glass and quietly admitted, "I broke up with my boyfriend."

"Then why are _you_ sad? Shouldn't he be the one with the proverbial tear in the beer?"

"I still love him," Arthur said, gulping down another swallow.

"Then why did you dump him?" he asked.

"Loving him wasn't… a good enough reason to sacrifice everything else in my life. I didn't want to come out of the closet. I didn't want people to spot us together. I didn't want my life to consist of the title of 'his boyfriend'. I'm a selfish dick, basically."

"Sounds like perfectly legitimate reasons to me," Robert shrugged, leaning back in his seat. "You can't just give your life to someone. A lot of people think that's what love is, but it's not. Love isn't sacrifice so much as it is meeting in the middle."

"He didn't ask me or tell me to give up anything though," Arthur replied solemnly. "I just knew it was inevitably coming, and I'm already enough of an emotional wreck as it is. The last thing I need in my life is more stress, and I know a lot of it came from him… even if he did mean well."

"You've got to take care of yourself," Robert agreed, taking a swig at his beer.

"…Yeah… I guess…" Arthur mumbled. "I didn't think it would hurt this bad… I've never felt this terrible in my entire life. It's like… It's like there is this _hole_ where my heart used to be."

"Take it one day at a time, and that pain should gradually fade," Robert shrugged. "It does hurt like hell though."

Ally and Ariadne jumped into a new song.

" _There's a fire starting in my heart, reaching a fever pitch and it's bringin' me out the dark…_ " the two girls sang, and Arthur felt like every word was striking him like an arrow. It was like the whole goddamned world was mocking him.

"I don't want to be here anymore," Arthur said, looking frantically at Robert for some kind of support. "Could you help me get home?"

"I can't drive because I'm trashed, but if you want we can walk back to my place. It's pretty much right across the street," Robert suggested. "I have a couch you can sleep on."

"Thanks," Arthur sighed, sliding out of the booth to trail along behind him. Ariadne was too caught up in her song to notice he was leaving, even if he was stumbling and noisy while he was doing it.

Out in the parking lot, Arthur asked Robert, "How do you know about what I'm going through anyway? How'd you know I was gay and all that?"

"Because I've lived it. I had a boyfriend in high school that I was fucking nuts about, but I couldn't tell anyone because he was my teacher."

"So, you're gay like me," Arthur said blearily.

"Uh… yeah, I thought that was obvious. Man, for a homo, you sure are bad at finding other homos."

"Yeah… I guess…" Arthur sighed, blushing a little in embarrassment. "Well, how come Jacobson treats me like crap but doesn't treat you like crap?"

"Well, actually, he does, but no one has heard confirmation from me that I'm gay anyway. You're the only one I've actually told, so don't go spreading it around, all right?"

Arthur blinked. "Why'd you tell me?"

"Because I know you aren't about to swing a baseball bat at my head for it. I mean, yeah, we go to art school, so I'm sure there are a lot more of us—in fact I'm positive of that—but you're the only one I'm actually moderately close to."

"Your parents don't even know, do they?" Arthur asked.

"Of course not! Do you think I want my head chopped off, or worse, to lose my trust fund? I'm not stupid."

"How is losing your trust fund worse than death?" Arthur asked.

Robert laughed, swinging an arm around Arthur's neck. "Do you know how much I'm worth?"

Arthur just smiled a little because he was warm like Eames was warm. He was warm and safe, and he made Arthur not feel like he'd gone and exiled himself to an island all by himself. His smile made his heart feel a little less broken (but only a little), and his eyes were just so, so blue.

"Don't let this break up stuff get you down, Arthur," Robert continued, and maybe he did sound a little airier when he was drunk. "You'll bounce back. Just pour all of your angst into your music. That's what all the tortured artists do, you know. That's what I did. I composed five ridiculously dramatic piano concertos the day that I got dumped, and I swear to you that it was one of those pieces that got me through auditions and into Cobol. They said that they were impressed with my passion or something ridiculous like that, but it really did work out for the best. I guess everything really does happen for a reason. Go figure."

"I don't think I can write anything."

"Sure you can," Robert smirked. "When we get back to my place, you can use Kathy's violin and cry pitifully until you've got something—I guarantee you it will only take you fifteen minutes or so. Ah, see, Kathy is my roommate, but she's out of town because her father's having heart surgery—actually, you could probably sleep in her bed if you wanted to."

"So, what, you want to write something together? Like… collaborate?"

Robert shrugged. "Sure, we could do that, or we could just practice. I _can_ play when I'm drunk, and the piece you're performing does have a piano part underneath it. I was actually going to offer to play the accompaniment part underneath your solo today, but you ran out before I could."

"Why would you want to play with me? I'm not passionate. I play like a robot, and I freeze up when it's important."

"Well, admittedly, you have played pretty robotically in the past, but your songs never felt that way. It was just your expression. I think people didn't know what to do because when you were stony faced and your piece was dramatic, it was difficult to connect the dots. You can do it now though, so I don't really know what you're so uncomfortable about. They put you in first chair for a reason, Arthur. You're the best violinist we've got, and I completely admire your skills."

"My boyfriend taught me how to play with my emotions… but I hadn't used them in so long, so I still don't know how to use them or what to do with them… I'm a fucking _mess_ , Robert. You shouldn't admire me. I'm probably going to fail epically at the concert… that is, if Jacobson even lets me play."

"Man… _fuck_ Jacobson. You're twice the violinist he ever was and ever could be, and you can fucking tell him that I said that. I don't even care."

Arthur was sure that, had Robert been sober, he would care very, very much, but the sentiment was nice and he appreciated it.

"Mal will make sure you have your solo," Robert continued, "and you're going to do a great job at it without a doubt. Stop talking yourself out of things before you do them."

…and when they reached the doorway of Robert's apartment, Arthur may have stumbled into his arms.

…and when Fischer had asked him if he was all right, he may have kissed him.


	12. Track Twelve: Tell Me That It Isn't True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Twelve: Tell Me That It Isn't True

Robert tasted like beer and cigarettes and the slightest hint of mint from most likely brushing his teeth before coming to the bar. He hadn't even known Robert smoked, but he recognized the flavor.

Eames had tasted like cigarettes too.

There was a moment where Arthur thought the messy, drunken kiss would escalate to something more, but then Robert broke the contact, looking a little flustered and confused, his mouth swollen and red. "Uh… what was that for?" he asked, a smile threatening to break onto his face. Warranted or not, he'd apparently still enjoyed it.

"I… I don't know…" Arthur said, wishing he'd sink into the floor. What had he just _done_? How many times was he going to drunkenly kiss other men?

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Robert said, smirking as he unlocked the door and let him in. "You shouldn't go around smooching with other guys yet, Arthur. You just got out of a relationship and you're lonely and insecure, and you want someone, but I can guarantee you that it's not a good idea to go bed hopping."

Arthur sat down on the couch, knees knocking together awkwardly as Robert shuffled around in the kitchen. He didn't seem bothered by the kiss which bothered Arthur quite a lot actually. If he had kissed Arthur, Arthur would have been panicking, maybe screaming at him…

When Robert came back in with some water, claiming that Arthur should keep hydrated so he didn't get a hangover in the morning, Arthur asked him, "Why aren't you pissed off or freaking out?"

"Uh… because I know you didn't mean anything by it," Robert said as if it was obvious, sitting down at the grand piano he'd squeezed into a corner.

"Exactly…" Arthur said unsurely. "Why…"

"I kiss people I'm not serious about," Robert shrugged. "That's the fun of being young. Still, you should only kiss someone if you really want to, not because you're lonely."

"That's how my boyfriend even _met_ me," Arthur said, unable to look him in the eye as he said it. "It wasn't supposed to be romantic or anything… We weren't supposed to get so… _involved_ with each other… but we did."

"Well, that tells me how responsible he is," Robert said matter-of-factly, playing a trill of notes on the keys, "but hey, if that's what you go for, I'm not going to badmouth you for it."

"Well, I kind of tackled him," Arthur admitted sheepishly. "I don't know what came over me then, but I was drunk so that might have had a lot to do with it. I didn't even _like_ him, but he was really attractive, and I guess I'd just been restrained for so long that I couldn't take it anymore."

Robert raised his eyebrows in interest. "What? _Really_?" he asked, clearly amused, and Arthur didn't find it very funny at all, expressing as much without words. Robert tried to explain, "It just doesn't sound like something you'd do. I had no idea you were so… frustratingly _confined_." The smile on his face was making it difficult to stop being agitated.

"I'm not really comfortable talking about it," Arthur huffed.

"I mean, really, most people just tug one out and move on. At least the guy didn't get put off when you came on a little—ah— _strong_."

"Oh, for the love of—is it really fair that you're _teasing_ me? I'm in misery and you're making fun of me. Some friend you are," Arthur groaned. "Look, I had a lot of problems before I met him, and now I have different ones now that it's over."

"We all have problems," Robert replied, going into a slow piano improvisation. "Sorry, I thought maybe I could cheer you up."

"I know it sounds stupid, but I didn't even know I could _be_ happy before I met him, and now that it's over, I don't know how to be happy without him…"

Robert paused in his playing and asked, completely honestly, "Then why did you break up with him?"

"I already told you. I was just trying to take care of myself."

"How is going far, _far_ out of your way to make sure you're miserable taking care of yourself?"

"I would have been miserable if I stayed!" Arthur shouted, jumping to his feet, and he swayed a little with the shift of gravity. "You don't understand!"

"I might if you explain it to me," Robert replied simply, shrugging, "just a thought."

All of the anger drained out of Arthur as quickly as it came, and he sank back into his seat and drank his full glass of water before saying, "If I told you, I'm afraid you'd sell me out to the press."

"The press? Wh—first of all, I'm completely against talking to the press about _anything_ , being that my father is a famous C.E.O. who is constantly followed by press. Second, what the fuck were you two doing that would be risqué enough to rat out to the _press_?"

"So, uh… did you see how Eames, that famous guitarist for Radical Notion came out on television today?" Arthur asked.

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not. Eames is... _was_ my boyfriend."

"Oh," Robert said, eyebrows shooting up on his forehead. "Well… that's not what I expected. How the hell did you even—did you even _meet_ him?"

"The concert… Ariadne made me go, and I got drunk, and he found me upchucking into a trash can. I badmouthed his music, and then he dragged me to his trailer so that we wouldn't get caught by the paparazzi, and uh… yeah…"

It sounded so ridiculous that even Arthur wouldn't have believed it unless he'd lived it. Even if it hadn't been unbelievably similar to fake stories sent into dirty magazines by pathetic hopefuls, he still couldn't figure out how they'd found love along the way… maybe he'd loved him all along… he just didn't know.

"You're nothing like I always thought," Robert chuckled. "Luckily, you got the hottest one of the band. I would have been absolutely ashamed if you'd hooked up with that greasy guy, Nash."

" _Thanks_ , you're _so_ helpful," Arthur replied flatly. "The fact of the matter is, I couldn't stay with him because he's famous, and I didn't want my… _life_ to be thrown out of balance, you know?"

"Don't you think being the boyfriend of a celebrity would get you a lot more attention by the orchestras you want to be a part of?" Robert suggested.

"I—I doubt that they consider Radical Notion to be a respectable form of music, even if they actually are, and… I want to be accepted for my own abilities. I want them to like me for my own merit, not just because I'm the controversial fuck buddy of some rock star."

"Yeah, but you're not his fuck buddy. You guys are serious about each other, aren't you? I mean… frankly it seems a bit ridiculous that you would be considering you haven't known each other that long, but stranger things have happened, so—"

"Well, how am I supposed to know if I love him or not?" Arthur countered.

"You're the one who told me that you did," Robert said.

"Y—yeah, but—but I've never been in love before. Maybe I'm just fucking _delusional_ , and I shouldn't even be so goddamned sad over him…"

He was grasping at straws… but he couldn't help but think that maybe he could convince himself that he didn't actually _love_ Eames, and then he wouldn't have to feel the aching hole in his chest. He hoped Robert would sense it and play along.

"All right… maybe you're not, but then why _are_ you sad?"

"I… Well… it's my first relationship, and I fucked it up. I feel like such a… jackass because I pretty much led him on and then just shoved it off. He genuinely cared about me, and I just… It just prove how fucking awful I am at being with anyone."

Robert stood from the piano. "So you don't know if you love him, but you think you might have just been attracted to him."

"Well, _yeah_ , I was attracted to him, but that doesn't mean I was _in love_ ," he said, nodding to confirm it though he wasn't sure if it was for Robert or for himself.

"Do you think I'm attractive?"

Arthur's blushed. "Yeah, you're the hottest guy at our school. Everyone knows that."

"So, when you kissed him, what'd you feel?"

Arthur's blush deepened. "Uh…" he mumbled. "Good… sparks… um… fluttery, I guess?"

"…and how did you feel when you kissed _me_?"

"I—I mean, it didn't really last long enough for me to—"

Well, it had lasted long enough for him to taste Robert's flavor.

"All right, then," Robert said, knelt down before Arthur, and pressed his mouth to his. Arthur let out a muffled sound of surprise and decided to just go with it. After all, it wasn't like he had a boyfriend anymore, and Robert was extremely good-looking. He'd lost his virginity, so it wasn't like it was easy for him to be missing out nowadays, and Robert wasn't nearly as high risk a mate as Eames had been. He was smart, talented, and best of all _not famous_. He could give a _normal_ relationship a go with Robert…

There was only one problem…

Robert broke the kiss and, seeming to read his mind asked, "What did you feel?"

Arthur couldn't lie.

He said, "I felt… nothing."

Robert smiled haughtily, like he'd just deduced something incredible, and said, "Well, I guess that means you're in love with Eames, doesn't it? After all, I was pretty much offering you a good relationship with a fellow peer that you wouldn't necessarily have to keep secret. I'm _perfect_ , at least according to a bunch of people I don't really even know, but still you felt nothing."

"No… _No_! I don't _want_ to—"

"It's not like you can _help_ it."

Eames's words from the interview filtered into Arthur's head. _"No one ever plans to fall in love after all, it just sort of_ happens _. It's unexpected and it's as grand as it is bloody terrifying."_

"Damn it," Arthur sighed, sinking down in his seat, and Robert laughed uproariously like it wasn't the absolute worst thing ever. When Fischer had calmed down, Arthur ventured to ask, "How am I going to get over him?"

"He's your first. You never get over your first," Robert replied. "Sad but true."

"So… what do I do?"

Robert got up and left and returned a moment later with a violin, and in an all too familiar way, thrust it in his face and said, "Just play."

So, Arthur did… but mostly he just drunkenly, pathetically sobbed his way through tunes he didn't recognize, and Robert wrote down the notes on blank sheet music, made suggestions, and let him cry through it some more. He added piano, and Arthur continued to spill out everything he had been holding in.

Over those four hours that they played together, he kept thinking of Eames.

He thought of Eames's smell and his smile and the way his eyes had flecks of green in them. He thought of the way he spoke and the things he said that made Arthur feel like he could do anything. He thought of the way his hands had touched him like he was something more valuable than anything he'd ever owned. He thought of how Eames had put his arms around him when he'd started to cry, told him how beautiful his song was, how beautiful he was. He thought of how fucking amazing Eames seemed to be at everything, whether he was strutting around on stage with a guitar or just singing in his hotel room. He thought of Eames's interview and how he'd quoted Arthur, how he'd spoken of how much being out of the closet would mean to other people, how he'd wanted to make it okay for everyone. He thought of how Eames had teased him, and he thought of how Eames cried when Arthur had broken up with him.

…and he thought…

Surely, he must have made a humongous mistake.

* * *

When Arthur dared to open his eyes, he found himself curled up on the same couch, hugging Robert's roommate's violin. He blearily took in the landmarks of the room, head aching a little from a hangover (after all, he'd gone and cried to the point that he'd dehydrated himself), but he didn't see Robert anywhere.

He rolled off the couch but didn't manage to put his feet down before his shoulder hit the hard wood, and he hissed out a curse word before stumbling to his feet. He had no idea what time it was and only vaguely remembered the things he'd admitted the night before. He wasn't sure of anything except one particular thing.

He missed Eames.

In fact it hurt _worse_ than it did before, and he hadn't even been aware of that possibility. He was nearly bowled over with the pain in his chest, blooming the moment Eames came to mind, overshadowing the pain from his hangover one hundred fold.

"Robert?" Arthur called out, voice scratchy like he'd been screaming.

He found him in the kitchen, chewing on the bite of a colorful omelet, the smell of which made Arthur's insides twist. "Morning," Robert replied, not looking up from the newspaper he was reading. "How are you feeling?"

"I want to die," Arthur moaned, nearly collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs.

"Yeah, you said about as much about four o' clock, right before you finished off the last movement of the sonata you cranked out last night."

"What are you even talking about?" Arthur asked monotonously, dropping his forehead down onto one arm.

"I helped you write a sonata last night," Robert explained, wiping his hands and his mouth on a napkin. "It's impressive. It's also about fifty pages of sheet music. You might want to cut it down a bit in the future."

"I wrote fifty pages of music last night?" Arthur asked in disbelief.

"Well, I helped," Robert replied with a shrug.

"I was a little hysterical last night," Arthur said. "I don't remember most of the things I did…"

"Well, at some point when I went to the bathroom you found my wine cabinet and downed about a fourth of the bottle, started singing _Rolling in the Deep_ , and passed out. Other than that, we pretty much wrote music, and you told me about Eames."

"How much?"

"Pretty much everything, right down to the way you liked him to fuck you."

"Now I _really_ want to die," Arthur mumbled, humiliated. "Couldn't you have lied to me just now?"

"Sorry."

There was a long time where Arthur just listened to the sound of silverware clinking lightly against Robert's plate, just stared into nothingness and tried to quell his nausea and his aching chest.

"So," Robert said, lifting the empty plate and taking it to the sink, "are you still planning on going to apologize and get back with Eames, or what?"

"What?" Arthur asked, confused.

"That's what you said last night," Robert said, "between the wine and the singing. You said that you were going to go to his hotel and tell him that you were wrong and that you wanted to still be with him. You said that you didn't care if people thought badly of you because the only people whose opinion matters about you two is just you and Eames. You really rambled for about twenty minutes about how important love is for the world and that people should just leave you two alone and let you just _be_ , or something like that. I didn't understand quite a bit of it."

"That doesn't sound like me," Arthur said.

"Well, neither did the fact that you've been dating and fucking a famous rock star. You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Don't patronize me."

Robert smiled, clearly enjoying his misery just a little more than he should. "You make it sound like being more than your surface value is a bad thing."

Arthur paused and dwelled on that for a long, long time.

Had he really been that focused on his reputation?

Hadn't he already soiled his reputation as the mechanical little violin freak who slashed his wrist in the school bathroom and stood by the lie about it being an accident even when no one believed him. He was the emotionless little prick that had only one close friend and was now being labeled a homosexual. It didn't matter if he confirmed, denied, or kept silent. People were going to assume and talk about it, and there was nothing he could do about it. Jacobson would keep treating him like shit because he'd already decided that the rumors were true. Letting him know he was right wasn't going to change anything.

In the end…

In the end he'd been running from the one thing that brought him more happiness than anything in the world. He'd sent away the one person who'd managed to show him what it was like to live rather than just exist, the one person who'd allowed him to fall in love with someone for the first time and to fall in love with music for the second time.

…and why? To protect that stupid reputation that was already pretty sullied anyway? To believe that symphonic orchestras would choose him because of the fact that his boyfriend was famous, even when he _knew_ what a damned good violinist he was and would surely be chosen on merit in any place of quality? To keep his pictures out of the paper and to get reporters to leave him alone just because he didn't want to be _bothered_ with it? He couldn't make that sacrifice for the man that he fucking _loved_?

"Oh, my God," Arthur whispered, stunned at his revelation. "What have I done?"

"Funny, I think Ariadne mentioned to me once that you don't believe in God," Robert said.

Arthur ignored him, instead getting to his feet. "I have to go now… I have to… I have to go find Eames. I've got to tell him what a fucking idiot I've been and get him back."

"Take my advice and take some hangover medication and wipe the drool off the side of your mouth first," Robert offered.

Arthur smacked him on the back of the head, causing the other man to laugh.

* * *

Arthur had forgotten he'd ridden to Starkey's in Ariadne's car, and his apartment was still too far to really walk. He ended up having to go back to Robert's door and asking him to give him a ride.

He had to promise him an eventual autograph from the rest of the band if Eames decided to take him back.

The drive to the hotel was maddeningly slow. Robert was the most safety-conscious driver Arthur had ever ridden with (or perhaps he was just used to Ariadne's speed demon tendencies), and he really felt that maybe he could have risked a ticket for him just this once since Robert had enough trust fund money to already put him on a beach in Maui for the rest of his days if he so desired. Robert kindly reminded him that explaining to a cop that he was driving him to a hotel so that he could hook up with a famous rock musician would probably go badly. Arthur had kept his mouth shut after that, but it didn't make the wait any less torturous.

Finally, _finally_ they arrived, and Arthur didn't even wait for the car to completely stop before he clambered out and took off toward the rotating doors. He made it into the lobby and up through the elevator with as much composure as he could muster, but he quickly came to the discovery that there were no guards on the floor. After he put his key card into the lock, he found it had been changed (probably because the cards hadn't been returned).

Panicked, he made his way back down to the lobby. He was grateful he still looked put together enough to not look like an insane groupie as he approached the front desk and lied, "Uh… hi, my name is Austin Benson, I'm the technical manager for Radical Notion, and it seems that they aren't in their rooms. I can't contact them via cell, so I was wondering if you could tell me if they stepped out for a moment or two? I have some questions for the placement of the guitars at the Save Our Songs concert."

"Ah…" the woman studied him until she decided his story was legitimate, and then started typing away on her computer. "Ah… here we are. Oh, see, it appears a Mr. Saito checked them out yesterday afternoon."

"O—oh…" Arthur mumbled and tried not to look shocked and devastated.

"Oh, yeah," the other woman from the front desk came out from the back room, tucking a short curl of red hair behind her ear. "I was here yesterday when that happened. Yeah, the paparazzi freaking _stormed_ this place. I mean, there were reporters and cameras and just tons of people _everywhere_. They had to leave through the back, and they were still bombarded out there too. They all wanted to talk to that Eames guy about coming out on television. It was really crazy."

"I… I wasn't informed of this. I'll have to have a talk with Saito about his professionalism. Do you have any idea where they went?" Arthur asked, chanting over and over in his head to remain calm. If he wanted his information, he'd have to keep playing the part. He was grateful he'd checked himself out in the mirror before he'd left and that Robert had lent him a clean shirt.

"Um…" the girl said, trying to think.

"Please… ah… it's vital that I speak with one of them right away. My boss is going to have my head if I don't get this information," Arthur explained, throwing on his most serious face. He'd generally been a terrible liar in the past, but somehow he was holding his ground this time around. Maybe it was just because he didn't feel guilty about lying to these women he didn't know. Maybe it was just because he really, _really_ wanted to talk to Eames. He _needed_ to talk to him.

Really, he wasn't completely lying, actually.

"Okay, uh… I don't know for sure, but I think I saw on television this morning that that Eames guy went back to London. Mr. Saito went back to Japan, and I don't know where Nash or Yusuf went, but I do know that Cobb wasn't even here—"

"Cobb, of course!" Arthur caught himself shouting and left before they could question why.

He'd realized at the mention of Cobb's name that Cobb was probably still with Mal. Cobb probably had Eames's mobile phone number. His search wasn't in vain.

"Well?" Robert asked when Arthur bustled his way back into the car. "That was quick. Did he turn you down flat?"

Robert had never been known to sugarcoat things.

"He's not there," Arthur explained, breathless from his sprint. "The paparazzi chased him all the way back to London. Drive me to Mal's house—er, please."

"Mal's house? I—don't even know where she lives, and why the fuck do we need to go there?" Robert asked, pulling a face.

"Just look up her name in your phone. I'm sure you can find her address. It's a pretty unique name," Arthur explained.

Robert sighed and started typing away, repeating, "and _why_ , pray tell, do we need to go to Mal's house? Does she have a lot of frequent flyer miles or something?"

"No, she's married to Cobb, so maybe he's still there."

"Whoa, whoa, _what_? Did you hear what you just said? Did you not expect me to react to that statement? Our French teacher, our assistant professor is _married_ to _the_ Dominic Cobb? She always said the last name thing was a coincidence!"

"I find it a little bizarre that you're freaking about this more than the fact that _I_ was banging Eames," Arthur mumbled with a roll of his eyes.

"I always expected you were just repressed," Robert explained, and Arthur would have been offended if he hadn't been absolutely right. "I have the address. I'm just learning new things all the time, aren't I?"

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the window while Robert drove, and he hoped that he could get Eames on the line, hoped that Robert wouldn't tell anyone about Mal and Cobb, about him and Eames.

He really wasn't sure how much he could actually trust him, after all.

…but he was thankful that he was around.

* * *

When they arrived, the two of them got out of the car together, took the short walk to the front door, knocked, and waited.

Inexplicably, Arthur began to feel a little nervous while waiting, but it faded slightly when Mal opened the door looking beautiful and understanding like usual. "Arthur?" she questioned, looking from one boy to the other. "Robert? What are you two doing here? Is something wrong?"

"Ah… Mal, is um… is your husband here?" Arthur asked, swallowing thickly.

She looked to Robert then for a long moment, as if trying to read if he knew or not before saying, "Dom is here."

"Can I talk to him?" Arthur asked. "I won't be long… I just… I need Eames's number."

She stepped aside to allow them into her perfect home, radiant and modern yet classic at the same time, just like Mal. "He's napping on the settee right now, but all you have to do is gently shake him and he should stir. Would you boys like some tea or something? I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to clean things up."

Of course, the phrase was clearly a formality since the place was absolutely spotless. Even Cobb, still snoozing on the couch, had recently showered. His hair was still damp and hanging in his face, and he smelled of cologne and shampoo.

"Dom," Mal whispered, touching his shoulder gently. "Dom, Arthur is here."

Cobb stirred, taking a deep breath through his nose and blinked up at the two boys. "Oh, uh… hi…" he said.

"I'm Robert Fischer," Robert said, extending a hand. "I'm a big, but not insane fan."

"Thanks," Cobb said, shaking back before turning his attention to Arthur. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"I… I need Eames's number. I made a huge mistake, and I need to talk to him," Arthur explained anxiously, unable to look Cobb in the eye. He wasn't sure why he was ashamed, but he was.

"Uh… sure…" Cobb said, pulling out his cell phone and showing Arthur the number.

Arthur immediately dialed and, before hitting call, asked Mal to allow him onto her back porch for some privacy.

He left Robert inside with them to question their secret relationship.

* * *

Eames was tired.

He hadn't slept, having no time to in between missing Arthur, packing his things, missing Arthur some more, running from the paparazzi, ignoring his band mates complaints (mostly from Nash) and trying not to dream about Arthur on the plane, checking into his hotel room, and missing Arthur. He was drinking through all of it at least, so at that point he was both tired _and_ drunk off of his arse.

He was currently plopped down into one of the plush armchairs in his suite with Nash and Yusuf in the other two, and Yusuf was passing a blunt around. With the alcohol and marijuana in his system, Eames was sure he'd be able to finally sleep dreamlessly, and it was only a matter of time before he was out cold.

The only problem was that somehow reporters had gotten a hold of his mobile phone number, and they had been calling it constantly. He would have turned it off, or rather flushed it down the toilet, if Saito didn't still need it to contact them.

The damned ringing devil wouldn't bring him peace, reminding him of everything he'd done, just ringing and ringing and ringing, and he wanted to curl up and die but was sure the fucking phone wouldn't let him.

It was starting to annoy the other two as well.

"Couldn't Saito call one of _us_ instead of you?" Nash suggested. "This is getting fucking ridiculous."

"I bet it was Zora who gave out the number. Apparently she actually wanted to date you," Yusuf offered pointlessly, and it was possibly the first time in Eames's life that he would rather smack Yusuf than Nash. "I wonder if she'd date me..."

"Oh, fuck off, Yusuf," Eames grumbled, coughed a little on the smoke, and passed him the blunt.

"You know what? Fuck this," Nash said, grabbing Eames's phone off the table. "I'll give them exactly what they want."

He answered with a light-voiced, "Hello?"

"Who is this?" said the voice on the other line.

"This is Ryan," Nash said, and Yusuf and Eames started chuckling a little.

"Ryan?" the voice questioned, clearly confused.

"Yeah, Ryan," Nash continued, pacing across the room, "Why? What's wrong with that?"

"How do you know Eames?" the voice asked.

"Well, _duh_ , I'm his boyfriend," Nash said, and the other men were cackling across the room, just out of hearing range.

"Nash, you bloody bastard," Yusuf laughed. "What did he say?"

Nash pulled the phone away, staring at it. "That's weird… he hung up."

"I guess that's all he needed to know," Eames said. "This time tomorrow there will be papers and internet blogs all over the world talking about the mysterious _Ryan_."

There was no way that he could know that _Arthur_ had been the one on the other line, that _Arthur_ had heard Nash refer to himself as Eames's boyfriend…

…that _Arthur_ had come back into Mal's house with tears in his eyes and stormed out without saying a word with Robert hot on his heels demanding an explanation…

…that _Arthur_ had believed it and had come to the conclusion that Eames really _had_ been lying to him the entire time.


	13. Track Thirteen: So How Come (No One Loves Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Thirteen: So How Come (No One Loves Me)

Arthur bolted from Mal's house and started down the sidewalk. He had no idea where he was going, but he just had to get away from there. Devastation slammed him, slowing him from a run to a brisk walk, and soon it was like he couldn't even see, like he couldn't even breathe.

Eames had lied.

 _Everything_ had been a lie.

It didn't make any sense… Eames had seemed so sincere, so serious about everything… he'd looked so _shattered_ when Arthur had broken off their relationship, had seemed so… but it was all _lies_? All of it? It tore Arthur into shreds, and suddenly he was curled over, sobbing on the corner of the street, unable to go any further because he _really_ couldn't see, because he _really_ couldn't breathe.

He felt a hand take hold of his arm, and Arthur whirled around on the person to find Fischer there, and all Arthur could think to do was throw his arms around his shoulders and attempt not to scream too loudly. "He has a fucking _boyfriend_!" he shouted. "Maybe he always did! How could I have been so _stupid_?"

"What? What are you talking about?" Robert asked, and Arthur realized he was so upset that he surely wasn't quite as comprehensive as he had thought.

" _Eames_ ," Arthur shrieked, burying his face into Robert's shoulder, and he was sure he was shaking to the point Fischer couldn't even really put a hand on him, "Eames has a boyfriend—he has a fucking _boyfriend_!"

"What?" Robert asked again, but from the inflection, he clearly got the message this time.

"His boyfriend answered the phone…" Arthur whimpered, strength seeping out of him, and all he could do was slump against Robert to not fall down. "All the sweet words and love confessions… all the smiles and touches… everything was fucking _bullshit_ … I should have known… I shouldn't have believed him…"

"Come on," Robert said, dragging him back towards Mal's house, and Arthur had lost the ability to fight him. "Tell me everything."

"There's nothing to _tell_ ," Arthur whined, hand limp in Robert's grip. "He fucking lied…" It sledgehammered him again, so strong that he stumbled and nearly fell if it hadn't been for the other man taking hold of him.

Arthur looked wildly around, hands sliding along the fabric of Robert's shirt, and he brought one hand up to his own face to wipe at the tears there. As he did so, his eyes landed on the pale, barely noticeable scar slashed across his wrist from freshman year, and suddenly he was overcome with the urge to carve up his whole arm.

Apparently he said as much because Robert's blue, blue eyes widened in panic.

Arthur was a whole new level of hysterical, and when he realized it he forced himself to calm down. He shouldn't have been planning on cutting himself up like the Christmas turkey, screaming and crying like an imbecile, and in _public_ on top of that. He took several deep breaths and managed to stop his wailing.

…and then he was overcome with a whole new emotion on top of his misery.

He was _angry_.

No, not angry. He was _livid_. _**Furious**_.

How _dare_ he do this to him? Whether Arthur had come onto him first or not, that gave him no right, _no right_ to lead him on such a wild goose chase. The jackass… the fucking bastard… Arthur had given his first kiss, his virginity, his fucking _heart_ to the bastard, and Arthur no longer wanted to hack himself up nearly as much as he wanted to hack up Eames. With a chainsaw. An old rusty chainsaw.

"You son of a bitch!" Arthur found himself screaming at the sky, and Robert was cutting him off by covering his mouth with both hands and shoving him into the car.

Okay, maybe he was still quite hysterical.

Robert was telling him something about taking him back to his house, but Arthur wasn't listening. His forehead fell against the cool glass of the passenger side window, and he could see Mal standing in the yard with her arms folded around herself, dark eyes full of nothing but concern.

He couldn't hear what Robert was saying to her through the glass, but it didn't matter because the next thing he knew, they were back on the road.

He buried his face in his knees and just wished everything was the way it used to be before Eames had gone and ruined his entire life.

* * *

Eames was _dying_.

He was sure he was laughing to the point that he couldn't breathe while Yusuf talked to another reporter on his cellular phone. He did a dynamite impersonation of Ricky Ricardo.

It was what they had been alternating doing for the past several hours since the damned ringing son of a bitch wouldn't let anyone sleep. They would pick a character and proclaim to be Eames's boyfriend, and as the hours passed on and the weed continued to be passed around, each character got progressively more ridiculous.

So far, Eames was apparently dating David Beckham, Johnny Depp, Tom Cruise, Kermit the Frog, Bert _and_ Ernie (at the same time), Simba from _The Lion King_ , the first Darren from _Bewitched_ , Greg Brady, and now Ricky Ricardo. It was pretty much anyone they found on or in a magazine or TV Guide.

"This is the best game ever," Yusuf said blearily when the reporter hung up on him. "You'd think they'd have gotten the hint by now."

"Maybe now they'll stop bloody calling," Eames chuckled, flopping down onto one of the beds, tired out from the emotional rollercoaster that was his life as of recently.

"Too bad they're still not leaving the front of the fucking hotel," Nash said, peeking out through the curtains. "Saito's security can only keep them so far away from us after all."

"It's good to see you smile though," Yusuf said.

Eames wished Yusuf hadn't have said that, and Yusuf seemed to be wishing it too, because Eames immediately remembered why he hadn't been smiling.

The worst part was he was just drunk, tired, and high enough to allow his emotions to muddle up, and he started crying about how he missed Arthur. He fell asleep like that.

The next morning went about the same as the day before, with a little bit of weed, a little bit of crying, and a lot of telling off reporters on the phone. The game got boring, and they ran out of ideas, and eventually Nash and Yusuf were just telling them that they had the wrong number and to stop calling them. Eames loafed about in his pajamas, writing song after song on his guitar that got progressively sadder and more pathetic, and then he just couldn't play anymore.

He slept some more…

…but in that bed, he could feel Arthur's invisible presence there, warm and smiling with the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his music was lilting through the air in a distant echo as if he was just down the hall waiting for Eames to come to him, and his touch was there, pawing at his back with feather light fingertips, like a ghost hovering just above his bed and never giving him enough.

He could even still taste Arthur in his mouth, no matter how many times he brushed his teeth.

Wasn't heartbreak supposed to get easier day after day? It felt like he wasn't improving at all. He'd have moments of happiness immediately quashed by the memory of Arthur hanging on his heart, and he was sure Yusuf and Nash were getting pretty sick of being stuck with him and his permanent gloom.

What the hell was he supposed to _do_?

He wished he could at least _talk_ to Arthur, apologize again for not discussing the whole outing himself incident before doing it, to try to convince him that maybe they could at least be friends, that maybe they could try again someday. It would have helped if he could at least piss Arthur off to the point of him yelling at him so Eames could try and pass him off as an asshole and make an easier time out of getting over him. Then at least he could stop thinking of his brokenhearted face when he told Eames he couldn't do it anymore.

…but really, even then, Eames wasn't sure how he'd be able to get over him. If Arthur was angry with him, he sort of thought that he had every right to be. Truthfully, there wasn't anything Arthur could do to make Eames dislike him. He still had quite a tight hold on his heart, and Eames feared that me may just wind up feeling this way _forever_.

Absolutely _nothing_ could make him feel worse than he already felt.

 _Absolutely_ _**nothing**_.

…and then, two days after the phone call, when the reporters finally started backing off on the constant phone calls, Cobb managed to get through to Eames's line.

It was nearly one in the morning where Eames was, but he was awake, nursing a tumbler of whiskey while writing down some words he'd had stuck in his brain. Normally he never heard words, only music, but he figured he might as well get it out while he could just in case they were still good in the morning.

"H'lo," he greeted tiredly, expecting more questions, prepared to chew them out and move on. He really didn't want to deal with it anymore, but if heard his ring tone one more time, he was going to strangle somebody.

Unfortunately, the question that came blaring through the other end of the line wasn't any he'd been expecting.

"What did you _do_?"

"…What do you mean? Cobb, is this you?" Eames asked, confused.

" _Yes_ , it's Cobb! Who the hell else would it be?" Apparently Cobb had no idea what the past few days had been like for Eames. "What did you _do_?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Eames replied honestly, shutting his moleskin and sitting back in his chair to twirl his pencil around his fingers. "Have you gone off your nutter?"

"I've been trying to call you for days," Cobb told him in frustration. "I always got a busy signal."

"That would be because reporters have been ringing me up off the hook—"

"What did you do to Arthur?" Cobb interrupted sternly.

Eames paused. He hadn't expected Cobb to mention Arthur… but then again, Cobb hadn't known what was going on. "What are you talking about? He broke up with me, Cobb."

"I'm not talking about that," Cobb said, and that was when Eames's heart (or rather, what was left of it) went dropping to his knees.

"Then, what are you talking about exactly?"

"I'm _talking_ about how he ran out of my house in tears after he called you two days ago and hasn't shown up for school or rehearsal since."

"…Arthur called me?..."

For a moment, Eames's chest was so tight he couldn't breathe.

"Yeah, he did," Cobb said. "He showed up here a couple of days ago saying that he needed to talk to you. He said he'd made a huge mistake."

 _Oh, God_ , Eames thought, tears welling up in his eyes.

"What did you say to him, Eames? He was out there long enough that I know he got through… and then, like I said, he ran out of my house crying and screaming."

"Well… I mean, it's difficult to say because I wasn't—I mean, that is ah… See, Yusuf and Nash and I are trapped in this bloody hotel room until the paparazzi can be shooed off, and the reporters kept calling, so we… so we started making up stories about my fake boyfriend—You don't think he believed it, did you?" he realized that he practically shouted the last part and checked the door to see if he'd awoken his roommates. He hadn't.

"Are you _serious_? Of course he believed it!" Cobb shouted, and Eames wasn't sure if he'd ever heard Cobb sound quite so angry. "Are you out of your fucking _mind_? What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"Cobb, the stories were _jokes_! They were all bloody ridiculous! There's no way he believed I was dating Ricky Ricardo or Prince or whoever he heard one of us say."

"Were they _all_ that ridiculous?" Cobb asked quietly.

"Yes!" Eames complained.

" _All_ of them?" Cobb reiterated, voice trembling with rage. Eames had definitely never heard Cobb this angry before.

…and Eames hesitated, going completely silent because he'd just remembered how that odd first phone call had hung up suddenly as soon as Nash proclaimed to be Eames's boyfriend, Ryan.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck.

 _ **FUCK**_.

"Oh, God, what have I done?" Eames whispered, bringing his hand up to his mouth.

He could practically hear Cobb nodding on the other end of the line.

"Oh, God… Oh… Cobb, you've got to find him!" Eames told him desperately. "You've got to—you've got to tell him that it was a joke, that it wasn't true!"

"I don't know where he is, Eames. He hasn't shown up for class, so Mal can't talk to him."

"Go to his bloody flat, Cobb! I know where it is! I can tell you exactly where it is—"

"He's not there either, Eames. Mal went over to check on him yesterday and no one was home."

Eames's shoulders slumped, fear wracking through him and he begged Cobb, "Are you sure?... I mean, what if he was, but he was incapacitated? What if he—Oh, God, what if he did something to—Cobb, you've got to go back and make sure he—Oh, God…" Eames's eyes squeezed shut as tears released themselves, and his panic-stricken heart had been convinced that Arthur was already dead… Arthur had believed he'd been fucked over, had another one of his freak outs, and ended it all by putting a blade to his throat or by drowning himself in the tub or by sticking his head in the oven or by taking a bunch of pills or…

"Eames, calm down," Cobb commanded, and Eames realized that he must have been sobbing rather overzealously into the phone. He didn't even know how long he had been doing it or how long Cobb had been trying to get through to him. "Eames, I'm sure he's fine. Mal said that Ariadne went into his apartment and saw that he wasn't there, and when she called him he answered and told her to leave him alone. He's not _dead_ , Eames."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Eames whimpered, unable to stop himself. "I didn't know that he was on the phone… I never would have… it was an accident, Cobb…"

"I know," Cobb said, voice going more sympathetic. He always had a weakness over people crying whether it was any girl on earth or simply one of his friends. "You really should use your brain more often, Eames. It'll save your life."

"It wasn't even _me_ who answered the damn phone," Eames blubbered. "It was _Nash_ , the rat bastard… but it's not like Yusuf and I weren't laughing and encouraging him… We were just trying to get the reporters to leave us alone."

"I know, Eames, I know. Just don't panic, all right? I'm sure Arthur will come around, and when he does we'll get the truth to him, and I'll have him call you back, all right? Don't play anymore games, all right?"

Eames sniffed. "Never again, Cobb. I just… _fuck_ , I'm the worst human being on the face of the earth… and all I want is to hear his voice again, even if he's angry with me… I just miss the sound of his voice…"

…and that was when his tears sprang forth with new strength and he was a bawling mess again that had to be pulled back by Cobb on the other end of the line.

"Have you been drinking?" Cobb asked.

"Yes, I have, but I mean it, Cobb… I still love him, all right? More than anything—to the end of the universe and back… please… tell him that if you see him. I'll be there at the end of the week, and I want to see him. I've got to tell him… that I'm so sorry…"

"Hold yourself together, Eames. I'm sure he'll come back to school since the concert is at the end of the week. Just stay calm, and get back here as soon as you can, all right? Everything's going to be fine."

Eames took a deep breath and let it out and said, "Okay. I… I'll try…"

"Everything will be fine," Cobb repeated. "Take care of yourself. I'll see you in a few days."

He hung up, leaving Eames with only the silence and the heaviness of his regret hanging off of him…

He didn't believe Cobb. He didn't believe that everything would be fine. He wasn't sure how things could possibly be okay at this rate… Why had Arthur even called? What was the mistake he had made? Had he actually been calling to tell Eames that he wanted to be with him?

Had Eames actually screwed up his chance of being with Arthur when it had presented itself?

There was no way things could be all right.

Eames was sure of that.

* * *

Arthur couldn't go to school.

He knew he should have been going to rehearsal, practicing his songs, getting back to his life. He _knew_ that, but…

Well…

He couldn't stop shifting between engulfing rage and overwhelming despair. His emotions were absolutely and completely out of control, and if he wasn't growling and screaming, he was sobbing and sleeping it off.

He couldn't even go home because Eames's memory lingered in every corner of the place. His empty cereal bowl was still sitting in the sink. His plastic cup ashtray was still sitting on the bedside table. His imprint was still on the sheet, and his smell was still floating through the air.

Robert let Arthur stay at his place as soon as Arthur explained his fears, and really it wasn't like he was really bothering him. Arthur was like a ghost in the house, moaning and groaning from a room but seldom allowing himself to be seen. He slept more than he ever had, but it was never a decent sleep. He was constantly tossing and turning while Eames haunted him through his sleep, taunting him with every sweet lie he'd ever said, every false smile.

How could he have done this?

Why did Arthur still _care_?

Ariadne called once, and Arthur told her to leave him alone and hung up. He turned his phone off from that point so that it wouldn't bother him again. Surely Robert had told her that he was staying with him, but thankfully she didn't try to come over and question as to why he was acting in such a way.

Maybe Robert had explained what had happened. Arthur didn't know.

That Wednesday afternoon, Fischer came home from class and rehearsal to meet with Arthur in his kitchen. Arthur had his knees pulled up to his chest, still dressed in a pair of Robert's pajamas, picking at a bowl of microwaved fried rice. He hadn't shaved in a couple of days (though he had managed to bathe because there was nothing else to do), and he was looking more unkempt than he ever had, and it was _all Eames's fault_.

"How are you doing?" Fischer asked, taking Arthur's fork from him and taking a bite out of his food (since he wasn't really eating it anyway).

Arthur made a sound that wasn't really any kind of answer, but at least he didn't burst into tears like he had been before.

Robert apparently noticed as much. "Well, that's an improvement at least."

"I guess," Arthur mumbled. "What am I supposed to do, Robert?... Eames has just… ruined me. I'm sure Jacobson has taken away my solo by now since I haven't shown up for practice… I can't go home, I can't even leave this place without falling apart… I used to be so controlled and so focused, and now I can't… do anything… I just want to be able to know why I hurt so much, why I still _care_ when he's just a tool who played with my emotions."

Robert tousled his hair and walked over to the sink, digging a cigarette out from behind the potted plant. He had explained to Arthur that he had tried to keep his smoking habit secret from his roommate and his parents when they'd come to visit and never really got out of the routine.

Arthur had hated that the smell of the smoke comforted him. He also hated that he'd taken up the habit as well.

Fischer handed him one and lit it for him, and they both sat there smoking for a little while.

"I wish there was something I could do to make you feel better," Robert admitted after some time. "You really don't deserve this. You're much better than this."

"I don't know about that…" Arthur sighed, smoke lilting out of his mouth in swirls. "He doesn't even deserve my grief, the jackass… I mean, whether he had a boyfriend the whole time or just hopped into another guy's bed immediately afterward, it was still an uncalled for—"

"I don't know, Arthur," Robert shrugged, "I mean, you kissed me the same night you dumped him."

"That's not the same thing!" Arthur spat. "I was just drunk and lonely… I wasn't trying to make you into my new boyfriend. I was just—" Okay, maybe Robert had a little bit of a point, but still… "He must have had this guy as his boyfriend since before me anyway. I mean, he and I may have become boyfriends kind of fast, but not _one day_ fast. I should have known that everything he said was a lie. I should have known that nobody could really love me—"

"Okay, I've had enough of you talking like that," Fischer said then. "I know your self-esteem is in the toilet, but you need to know right now that that's _not_ true."

Arthur looked hopelessly at Robert because it sounded like another line. "You're just saying that to try to make me feel better," he said bitterly. After all, that was what Eames had done.

Eames had _lied_.

It punched him in the gut again just as fiercely as it always did.

"No, I'm _not_ just saying it. Arthur, you've got to rise above this. This is ridiculous."

"Well, what should I do?" Arthur asked desperately.

"Find someone else," Robert explained. "Stop letting him win. I know you love—"

"I _don't_!" Arthur interrupted. "I don't… I _hate_ his guts. I wish he was dead."

"Okay… all right, I'll let you have that," Robert nodded, clearly trying to keep the conversation more or less diffused, "but you can't keep living this way, Arthur. The world's still moving on around you. You've got to get back on your feet. You'll only allow Eames to ruin you if you let him."

"I just want someone to care about me for real…" Arthur sighed, dropping his head into his hands. "I've never been so vulnerable in front of someone as I was in front of Eames, and now I don't… I just don't know what I can do now…"

"Well, come on," Robert said, tugging him out of his chair. "You're going to shave, and get dressed, and we're going to go out."

"No, I don't want to…" Arthur groaned.

"Well, you've got to do _something_ ," Robert insisted, dragging him across the kitchen floor. "This is too much."

"I don't want to go out and drink and be reminded of how much of a loser I can be when I'm depressed. I just want to be fucked until I'm unconscious," Arthur complained. "Buy me a hooker or something. I just want to get Eames's touch _off_ of me."

"I'm _not_ letting you bring a hooker into my house. That's not a solution to your problem. You don't need _sex_. You need affection."

"Then why don't _you_ have sex with me? If you think I'm so great, why won't you make the moves on me? Just tell me the truth! Tell me I'm not beautiful and tell me how much I suck! Just _tell me_!"

Fischer kissed him.

He kissed him in a way that gave off the impression he'd been wanting to the whole time Arthur had been there, desperate and longing and actually a bit angry, like he'd frustrated him for far too long and just couldn't take it anymore. He kissed him so fiercely that their teeth clacked together.

Arthur let out a muffled sound of surprise, and then it was over as suddenly as it had begun.

"You think you're the only one going without right now?" Robert asked in agitation. "You've been walking around my apartment for days, and you think I wasn't affected by that? I haven't had a man in my life since high school, I'll kindly remind you, and you are _really_ testing my control right now."

Arthur swallowed and licked at his lips, the taste of Fischer's cigarette still lingering there, and then he remembered the one burning between his own fingers just in time for the ashes to fall into the carpet.

"I mean… how dare you talk about yourself so pathetically?" Robert asked as if he'd offended him somehow. "You're good-looking, and you're amazingly talented—fucking _gifted_ even, and you're smart too. Do you know how _rare_ that is to find in someone, especially someone your age? Most people your age don't know what to do with themselves, much less with their future, and you're talking about how no one can love you and how you suck? Seriously, have you _looked_ at yourself?"

Arthur hadn't been spoken to in such a way since Eames proclaimed his love… and Robert looked so serious when he said it too… and Robert had never given Arthur any reason to believe that he was lying either…

…and again he was reminded of the benefits of being in a relationship with someone _normal_ like Robert... someone who _clearly_ didn't have another boyfriend on the side.

Arthur lunged at him in a hungry kiss, arms latching on around his neck, and they were stumbling backwards onto the couch, clawing at each other's clothes, trying to get them off as fast as physically possible.

…but still…

Robert slipped his hands up underneath Arthur's shirt, brushing his fingers down his ribs a little clumsily, allowing their hips to grind together. His tongue slipped inside and Arthur let it, deepening their kiss as Arthur's hands fell to rest on Robert's hips.

…but _still_ …

Arthur broke the kiss, gasping for air, and he must have had a look on his face because Robert asked him, "What's wrong?"

Arthur still felt nothing.

He couldn't allow himself to feel _anything_ for Robert, no matter how intelligent, talented, beautiful, available, or willing he was.

He was still in love with Eames, no matter how much he didn't want to be.

"Yeah," Robert said, smirking a little, "that's what I thought."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said. He felt like the absolute worst person ever. He was leading Robert on… he wasn't any different than Eames had been. "Fuck, I… I'm so _sorry_ —"

"Don't be," Robert replied, wriggling and sliding out from underneath Arthur. "I _planned_ this, you see. Now that I've reminded you that you still love Eames, I need to ask you if _he_ was the one who told you he had a boyfriend."

"What?" Arthur asked.

"Was it Eames on the phone?"

"That doesn't matter—"

"Was. It. Eames?" Robert repeated again with emphasis.

"Well… no, but—"

"Then how do you know it was true?"

"…I don't know, but…"

"You need to talk to _Eames_ ," Robert explained sternly. "You need to talk to him face to face, _really_ talk to him, and get the truth out of _him_. Whether he has another boyfriend or not, whether he's a liar and a dick or not, you need to hear it from him. You won't be able to move on until then. You'll always be caught wondering if it was true or not until you know for sure."

"You… you think so?" Arthur asked.

"I _know_ so," Robert agreed.

"Then… what should I do?" Arthur asked.

"Practice," Robert said, standing. "You need to be prepared for that concert because you've got to show him, show everyone what you can do. You've got to get that solo, got to get back in good with the rest of the orchestra, because you may not get a chance to talk to him again otherwise."

"How the hell am I going to get my solo back?" Arthur asked.

"You actually still have it," Robert told him. "I've convinced everyone that you've been really sick. I told them you had mono… but you've got to be ready to play, Arthur. You've been curled up in bed for too long."

Arthur nodded slowly, taking in the information. Robert was such a lifesaver. He owed him a lot for all of this… He stood from where he'd been sitting. "I… I think I want to go home now. I play best on my own violin."

"Shave first and put some clothes on," Robert said, and if his smile was just a little disappointed, Arthur didn't bother to mention it. He didn't need anything to make him feel worse…

…because for the first time in days, he was starting to see if there was some kind of light at the end of the tunnel. He wasn't sure what was on the other end, but he wasn't hiding away from it anymore because Robert had been right. Robert had been right about everything.

He needed to get out of his funk that he'd been letting consume every fiber of his being.

He needed to get back to his life and back to his music and back to school.

Most of all, he needed to talk to Eames.


	14. Track Fourteen: Put Me Back Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Fourteen: Put Me Back Together

Everyone stared in an awed and surprised silence when Arthur showed up for the rehearsal on the S.O. S. stage on Friday, toting his violin as he always did. He tried to act like he hadn't been gone all week and that his peers hadn't last seen him leaving from the auditorium with blood on his face and fear in his chest, but it wasn't like any of them had forgotten that. Clearly, by the looks on their faces at least, they most definitely remembered.

Arthur felt even more uncomfortable when he realized Mal wasn't there, probably off doing an interview, but he took his seat just the same and prepared his violin to play.

There was no way Jacobson could badmouth his playing. He'd been practicing practically non-stop since Wednesday afternoon, and his worries about playing robotically were definitely not a problem anymore. If Eames had accomplished anything good in their relationship, it was giving Arthur a reason to play with emotion. Sure, everything seemed kind of angry or kind of sad, but it wasn't like the violin played the most joyful music anyway.

Arthur poured himself into his music, and he was surprised to find that the whole tortured artist thing actually had some merit to it after all. His playing was _spot on_. It was the only thing that could really make him smile.

Even Jacobson couldn't make a remark about his playing when he joined in with the rest of the orchestra. He felt as if he'd never played so brilliantly in his life. All Jacobson could even say was, "Nice of you to finally join us, Arthur," and that was all the bitterness Arthur got from him.

Knowing he needed to see Eames again was a surprising motivator to stay focused, and focus he did. He wanted to be at his absolute best. He wanted to prove that whether or not he'd been with Eames romantically, sexually, or otherwise, he was a damned good violinist and no one was going to tell him otherwise. He wasn't sure where the burst of confidence had come from, but he was determined to prove his worthiness, not only to Eames, but to himself. If Eames really had been stringing him along, the man was going to know just what he was missing out on.

He didn't stick around for questions after practice ended, instead going home to practice more.

Eames had been right about never being able to reach perfection, but Arthur was going to get as fucking close as he possibly could.

Ariadne apparently heard about his appearance because within the hour she was knocking on the door. He couldn't say that he was entirely surprised.

"I have been worried _sick_ about you," she growled when he opened the door. "You bastard, how dare you go off the grid like that and leave me hanging? I thought we were friends!"

"I'm sorry—"

"No, fuck you! Don't say you're sorry because you're not sorry at all! If you were sorry, you wouldn't have fucking done it! You're a jerk. You're a giant, self-centered jerk."

"Are you done berating me yet or is there more to this rant with preferably _meaner_ names to call me other than 'jerk'?" Arthur asked, and she huffed, signaling that she was finished.

"Are you okay?" she asked instead of continuing her rant, sounding defeated.

"I'm okay," Arthur said stepping aside to allow her in. "I'm… all right, I guess. I'm kind of just trying not to focus on how I'm feeling right now. I guess I just decided that numbness was better for the time being… but anyway…"

"You can't just go numb whenever you feel things, Arthur. That was part of your problem in the first place," Ariadne said, eyebrows furrowing as she took a seat on the sofa.

"It's not like that," Arthur explained, going back to his chair and taking a seat. "I'm not ignoring my emotions at all. I'm just not getting caught up in them right now because I need to focus on my music. I'm focusing them only on my music… trying to get a better handle on them or whatever…The show is tomorrow after all. Tomorrow is my one chance to talk to Eames and get all of this sorted out, and tomorrow is the day I move on with my life for certain."

"You're not going to try to win him back?" Ariadne asked.

"I broke up with him, Ariadne," Arthur said, lifting his violin to his chin and starting into a song. "If I was someone he hooked up with on the side or if he's found someone new, I don't really think it'll work out. I love him, and I know that, and if he wants to be with me then… well… I don't know… but I need to talk to him. I won't be able to get over all of this unless I do, and that's why I need to practice. I don't want to have to be practicing in the wings before each song. I want to be able to catch him and speak to him. I'm only hoping there's somewhere where we can talk privately, like a trailer or something. I didn't really have time to check to see this afternoon…"

"Well… what if he was lying to you?" Ariadne asked hesitantly. "What will you do then?"

"Move on. Sure, my heart will be broken, but I'll survive. I'm sure I'll eventually find someone else… I don't know how anyone could make me feel like…" he swallowed, stopping himself before he went down that road and got himself all torn up again. "…but really, it's all that I can do."

"Well, if he was fucking you over, I will never listen to Radical Notion ever again," Ariadne decided, crossing her arms and nodding. "Ever."

"Don't be stupid. You shouldn't hate on them just because of Eames. They are one of the few bands on the radio with genuinely good music. Besides… even if Eames was—even if… well… I ah…"

"You can't hate him," Ariadne finished for him, eyes gleaming a little, and Arthur feared for a moment she might cry.

"I never could," Arthur said sadly. "To claim that I never cared about him and that I hate his guts is not only counterproductive but denying how I felt. I can't deny those feelings. I've never felt something so strongly in my life."

"Stop, okay, just stop!" Ariadne wailed, and Arthur paused, confused until she said, "talking like that and playing that sad violin music is really, _really_ bringing me down. I can't take it. If you're going to talk to me, stop playing. I hate it when you do that."

Arthur huffed but did stop. He didn't really want to make her any angrier than he already had. She really didn't deserve all the grief he'd been giving her, even if he'd had his reasons. "It's just… It's just the truth," he said softly.

She crossed to him and put her hand on his shoulder, the way Eames had done and gently said, "I know. I believe that, Arthur… but I don't want to see you hurt anymore. It's killing me, and you know how I worry about you."

"Don't worry about a thing, Ariadne," he said, glancing up at her. "I have a plan."

"Oh? What is this plan exactly?"

Arthur smiled a little and all he said was, "You'll see."

* * *

Eames was in misery.

It certainly didn't help that Nash had Maroon 5's _Misery_ playing on his laptop while they sat in the private jet, making their way back from the U.K. to the S.O.S. concert.

"Are you _trying_ to torture me?" Eames asked. "You've caused enough damage, after all."

Nash glared, pausing the music. "Okay, first of all, my playlists playing music you miserably relate to has nothing to do with me because it was just a coincidence, and second of all I already said I was _sorry_ about all of that. How the fuck was I supposed to know that it was Arthur? I didn't even know he knew your number. Let it go, man. You'll see him at the concert, and you can explain everything and shit will be all hunky dory again. Fuck, I'll tell him myself that it was me."

"Keep talking like that and you'll start convincing everyone that you actually _like_ Arthur," Yusuf mentioned idly, unceremoniously trimming at his beard, using his laptop screen as a mirror.

"I _do_ like Arthur," Nash replied. "I like him a hell of a lot more than I like this showboating moron that blames for freaking _everything_." Nash squinted at Eames accusatorily.

Well, all right, Eames thought, maybe Nash had a little bit of a right to be snippy. Eames and Yusuf _had_ encouraged him, and what were the odds that it would have been Arthur when reporters had been calling for what felt like an eternity? Sure, Nash was an asshole, and he was Eames's go to guy when it came to blaming people for things (and most of the time he had damned good reason to as well), but… this time…

Well, Eames could admit that the only reason he was blaming Nash was because he didn't want to think about how it was his fault. He already felt bad enough without Arthur around (he honestly had no idea how he'd gotten by without the guy before), and he could have quite possibly gone and made things horrendously worse and possibly unfixable.

Still, he wasn't going to apologize to Nash. His pride wouldn't allow him to do that, considering Nash had dared call him a _showboater_. He would let up on bitching at him though, if he could help it.

"Things _aren't_ going to be all right," Eames explained to him, "this _hunky dory_ nonsense… Whether Arthur knows it was a joke or not, whether he wants to be with me or not, he can't just sacrifice his privacy so that he can be mine. I know he doesn't want to do that, and I would never ask him to."

"Yeah, yeah, we get it, you _love_ him and all that," Nash said with a roll of his eyes. "Hey, Saito, can I smoke on the plane?"

Saito shrugged from his seat, never looking up from whatever paperwork he was reading. "I own the plane. I don't enforce the rules."

"Yes, you do," Yusuf scoffed.

Saito lifted his tumbler of scotch and shook it, signaling the flight attendant that he needed a refill.

"No smoking on the plane," the flight attendant informed Nash as she passed, pointing to the No Smoking signal and then proceeding to pour Saito another glass.

"Lame," Nash grimaced. "Anyway…" he turned back to Eames. "If Arthur really loved you back, wouldn't he be willing to do that for you?"

"Don't go questioning his loyalty just because he doesn't want his life to consist of running from paparazzi," Eames spat back.

"I didn't say that he didn't _want_ to. Of course he doesn't want to. None of us do most of the time. I said he would be _willing_ to do that. It's not the same thing."

Eames exhaled through his nose, staring but saying nothing for a long time.

Nash shrugged when he got no response. "I'm just saying is all. There are tons of things we all never _want_ to do for the people we love, but the people we love are way more important than our dislike of whatever we don't want to do. Staying at someone's bedside in the hospital when you hate hospitals, for example, or you know ah—going to see a stupid chick flick just because she wants to see it, uh—holding bags at the mall, _going_ to the mall in general, visiting the parents… stuff like that."

"I hardly think destroying any bit of privacy he ever had qualifies in that category. At least someone's getting something out of those sacrifices. Neither of us like being followed and chased by paparazzi."

"I guess you'll just have to teach him the techniques we all use to get around them without being seen—disguises, wild goose chases, travelling late at night, having security goons—well, you know, if he still _wants_ you, that is."

Eames remembered why Nash was so easy to hate on but still refrained from saying anything incriminating. He didn't really have all that many people on his side at the moment, and the fact that, of all people, _Nash_ liked Arthur and didn't seem to mind Eames's relationship with him (whether it was in the past or present) was something Eames should have been grateful for. So, he kept his silence.

"I don't know what Arthur is going to do… Hell, I don't even know if he'll _speak_ to me. I guess if he doesn't, I'll already have my answer, but I would like the opportunity to explain myself at least," Eames sighed, carding his hands through his hair. "Even if he can't be with me, I do want to end this on… on good terms…"

"You don't want it to end," Yusuf said. "Don't say that you want it to end on good terms when you don't want it to end at all. You'll make a liar out of yourself, Eames."

"Thank you for that, Yusuf, you're extremely helpful," Eames responded in exasperation. Eames was looking forward to getting off the plane and away from the both of them. He'd been cooped up with them long enough, and he was starting to hate them.

"Enough," Saito said, raising his glass and his voice like a father talking to bickering children in the back seat of the car. "Why don't you all take some sleeping pills and a nap?"

"He started it," Nash grumbled, indicating Eames. "Don't blame me for him getting his underwear in a wad."

"Admittedly, his knickers being in a twist has a lot to do with you," Yusuf offered.

"Shut up, Yusuf! Nobody even asked you!" Nash spat. "You were laughing and playing along too so you're just as guilty."

"You're the one who fucked it all up though," Yusuf replied simply.

"You don't know that—and really it's Arthur's stupid fault for dumping Eames in the first place! If he hadn't done that, then he wouldn't have even had to make that dumbass phone call."

"He was only doing it to protect himself!" Eames interrupted. "Don't talk about things you know nothing about, Nash!"

" _Enough_!" Saito said sternly.

All three of them fell into an uncomfortable almost silence. Yusuf shuffled his feet, and Eames licked his teeth, and Nash clicked and typed away on his laptop, and Saito tilted the drink back to his lips with a tinkle of ice against glass.

…and then Nash hit a button, and his laptop started blaring out " _ALL BY MYSELF, DON'T WANNA BE ALL BY MYSELF…_ "

"I will fucking _end_ you!" Eames shouted, struggling to get out of his seat to beat the wildly cackling Nash over the head with his laptop while Yusuf held him back. "Do you think you're fucking funny? You're nothing but a wanker!"

"Flight attendant, I'm going to need another drink," Saito said, lifting his glass. "Keep them coming. I don't remember ever having any children, but it certainly seems that I do… How much longer will we be on this flight for?"

"Approximately seven hours, sir," the flight attendant replied, pouring him another glass.

"You wouldn't happen to have any sedatives in the form of blow darts would you?" Saito asked flatly. "If I'd known this was going to happen, I would have booked a separate flight."

* * *

Ariadne fell asleep on Arthur's couch that night while he was practicing, and after she had, he really got to work. He started editing and cutting down, playing and replaying parts until they were flawless, listening to pop and rock and indie music while he ate or changed clothes or tried to straighten up the disarray that his apartment was slowly becoming as he got more and more engrossed.

There was not a moment that night that went without music.

There also was not a moment that went without Eames.

Eames, a ghost of him at least, lingered in every doorway, every corner, watching and waiting and egging Arthur on to continue working, to keep practicing until everything was absolutely as perfect as it was going to get. Sometimes Arthur was angry at the memory of Eames, sometimes brokenhearted, sometimes sweetly reminiscent of the good times and full of hope that things were going to be different…

…and sometimes Arthur would get caught up in horror over the idea that everything he was going to set out to accomplish in the morning. Arthur had always feared failure; it had been bred into him by his parents since day one… and there was a damned good chance that all of this was going to blow up in his face, in front of thousands of people, and if it did he would probably never recover from it…

…but…

…well…

He had to try, didn't he? What was the point of living without taking risks?

It was a marvel to Arthur that he was thinking that way after so many years of being the opposite. Good or bad, Eames had really done a number on Arthur's personality in the short time they'd known each other…

Hell, Eames had done a number on Arthur's everything. He'd changed his perspective, changed the way that he played, changed the way he thought about himself when he played, changed the fact that he had never been kissed, changed the fact that he'd been a virgin, changed the fact that he'd never been in love, changed the way he used to shut down, changed… everything…

…and Arthur didn't _hate_ the change like he thought he would. He'd been somewhat reluctant (understatement) in his attempt to move away from his dark, lonely isolation and into Eames's arms, but even if Eames had fucked him over in the end, he'd done a lot of good for Arthur's life.

He knew this.

He accepted this.

…but God, he hoped and prayed that he hadn't been fucked over…

…and since when did he start believing in God anyway?

When he snapped awake, he was sprawled out in a bed of sheet music, clutching his violin to his chest, and sunshine was beaming across his eyelids. A quick glance at the clock informed him that it was seven in the morning.

He had to be at the concert in two hours.

So, he told himself in the mirror as he stripped down to shower, "I can do this… oh yeah, and fuck everybody else."

The words made him smile a little bit, even if they were a bit ridiculous. Everyone had their own ways of building self-esteem, he supposed.

He left with his violin case and a satchel of supplies, and he left the never disturbed Ariadne asleep on the couch with a note left on the coffee table with a front row ticket he'd reserved especially for her.

I'll be waiting for you at the concert, the note said in Arthur's elegant scrawl, You can count on it that this will be a concert you'll never forget. See you there. Don't be late.

He left it vague because he honestly had no idea which way it was going to go. It could be awesome or it could go up in flames. As much as he could hope it would be the former, he'd definitely prepared himself for the latter.

What he hadn't prepared himself for was the appearance of his parents in the audience, looking as agitated at the loud whoops and hollers of the crowd as he had surely looked back at the Radical Notion concert before all of this had started. Had he really looked quite that snotty? He couldn't help but wonder. Surely Eames had thought he was just horrendous if he looked like that. How could they have gotten anywhere near love when he'd looked like _that_?

Arthur had gone and distracted himself with thoughts of Eames again. The important thing at that moment was the fact that his mother and father were _there_. Why were they at the concert? They rarely came to anything he did, so why did they have to choose _this one_?

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"Mom, Dad, hi," Arthur greeted, forcing on a smile as they approached him. Oh, his plans were going out the window already… He couldn't talk to Eames with _them_ there. They would find out, they _would_. They always seemed to just _know_ when he was up to something they disapproved of. He was pretty sure fornicating with a very male rock star was pretty high up on the list, even if they weren't aware of it yet.

"Arthur," his father responded with a curt nod and shook his hand as if they were business partners rather than family.

"Arthur," his mother greeted in the same way and tacked on, "there are so many hooligans here today. I hardly think that this could be considered dignified. Did your professors not realize what they were getting themselves into when they allowed this… this _satanic_ music to be played at the same concert as true, quality music?"

Arthur decided to not respond to that with any real answer, choosing instead to nod and shake his head at the same time. "Well, I've ah… I've got to go and—you know, go rehearse so—"

"Don't stammer, Arthur. It makes you sound like a fool," Arthur's father said.

"Sorry, sir," Arthur said. "I'm going to go rehearse now. Enjoy the show."

He didn't stay to see his parents exchange sneers, as if he had _commanded_ they enjoy the show and now they were going to hate it just out of spite. Had he really been that much of an asshole just a few weeks ago?

Either way, he knew they weren't going to enjoy it. He was sure of that…

Fuck. Arthur was in the middle of a moral dilemma. There was absolutely no way that he was going to get out of this concert without ruining one aspect of his life, and while he knew which parts were more important to him, he still couldn't help but feel concerned about what the coming days were going to bring.

He ducked his head to avoid slamming his face into a sign, and as he did, he realized that the groups of people holding signs were _protestors_. Protestors for what? He paused a short distance away to read their signs, and it only took him a couple of moments to register that they were there for Eames. They were there to bash Eames for being a homosexual.

Things were really starting to spiral into disaster. All Arthur could do was stare at them for a long time and keep thinking that the whole universe must have had it out for them. Maybe being gay really was a sin.

Oh, well, too late to go back on it now.

"Arthur!"

Arthur was startled out of his daze by the calling of his name, and still his heart hammered against his chest with the little hope that it might be Eames. Of course, it wasn't because Eames wasn't stupid enough to go running up to Arthur in the middle of a crowd, especially in the middle of a crowd that included people who were currently waiting to get their hateful little mitts on him.

It was Robert, signaling him over where he was standing in a cluster of other students. "You're late, come on!" Robert called out, big blue eyes wide and lips thinned in frustration. He'd clearly been worrying about what Arthur had been up to, perhaps scared that he wouldn't show at all.

Arthur jogged over, mumbling little useless apologies, explaining that he was just having an audience with his parents, but of course he was going to get a scowl, but nothing more than a scowl out of Jacobson since Mal was there. She made eye contact with him as if trying to send him a mental message, but they clearly couldn't talk about whatever it was while everyone else was around.

Eames.

She wanted to talk about Eames, he knew it, he just _knew_ it.

…but he didn't want to talk to her about Eames. He wanted to talk to Eames himself. He tried to relay as much mentally to her, hoping she'd understand that he wanted absolutely _no_ opinions or theories clouding his judgment.

…well, none other than his own.

Robert passed Arthur the itinerary for the day and a program informing him of what order the bands would be performing in, all the while whispering, "Might be some bad news."

To top off the impending disaster stemming from the fact that his parents were there, that protestors were there, Arthur realized that Jacobson had cram-piled the orchestra and soloists with a completely full schedule, and Arthur was a part of all of it. There was literally not _one_ minute where he could sneak away and talk to Eames about all that had gone on.

So, that was it then.

His chances were already blown.

Eames would probably be flying out as soon as the concert was over to avoid the paparazzi and the protestors, and Arthur would never get to talk to him, and probably never _see_ him again. The show hadn't even started and he'd already failed.

So much for all of his planning and hard work.

Oddly enough (or perhaps not), he was much more distraught over the loss of Eames rather than the loss of his plan.

There was absolutely nothing he could do. Everything was failing and there was absolutely _nothing_ that he could _do_.

Unless…

No, no, he _couldn't_. He _**couldn't**_.

…but he had to do something if he didn't want Eames to walk out of his life without ever having the chance to even give him a proper goodbye. He had to do something if he didn't want to spend the rest of his life in everlasting misery, spending all of his time wondering just what could have been if he'd gotten the chance, hating himself for not going through with it and hating himself for getting into this whole falling in love mess in the first place. He didn't want to spend an eternity wondering if he would ever be able to fall in love again, sprawled out alone in his bed and staring at the ceiling fan, forced into fantasies of nights long ago when he hadn't felt completely and utterly alone.

Just thinking about it made him feel sick. If he had to live like that, he probably _would_ end up slashing his wrists in the bathtub to the tune of Mozart's _Lacrymosa_ and waiting for someone from the photography club to come and find him there.

He couldn't live like that.

The feelings that Eames had erupted inside of his heart were worth every single little crack and break he'd given to the organ. To spend his time being unsure was no way to go on. He just couldn't do it. Having Ariadne and his music, it just wasn't enough anymore, and he'd learned that being a little selfish and a little weak wasn't necessarily such a bad thing. Vulnerability wasn't so bad when someone was there to accept it with open arms… even if it had been fake… but the longer he thought about Eames and himself, the less likely it seemed. Maybe he just didn't want to believe it, wanted to cling onto the idea that he'd meant every word he'd said, just like he'd proclaimed in Ariadne's car, but…

…Eames had spoken to him without words.

Eames had treated Arthur so preciously, tenderly touching him in just the right places like he'd been doing it to him for years. He'd started talking about them possibly having an actual _relationship_ , rather than just sex, before Arthur had even been able to admit that he loved him. He'd been worried about him when he'd gone missing and kissed him even with vomit on his breath, smiled at him when he was a mess. He'd seen through all of the catastrophe that was Arthur, seen through all the hissy fits and the venomous words and the cold shoulders and the _bullshit_ and found someone absolutely beautiful underneath, someone Arthur didn't even know existed.

…and that was an _effort_ , Arthur was sure of that. Why would Eames go through that sort of effort for someone he didn't care about in the slightest? It just didn't make any _sense_ for him to do all of that for absolutely _no_ reason.

…and if Eames had had a boyfriend before but genuinely fallen in love with Arthur, who was he to stand aside and not _fight_ for him?

Arthur had always been the kind of person to fight for what he wanted, whether it was his solos, his scholarships, or even the last piece of pie in the school cafeteria. He sure as _hell_ could fight for Eames. He sure as hell _would_.

That settled it.

He had to do it, no matter the cost.

Just for safety's sake, he crossed himself and for good measure, prayed. He prayed to the God he had so long not believed in, apologizing for being so negligent and begging him to not let his life become nothing but a fucked up mess after this, to at least let one thing in his life go right for once… and then he apologized for using the word 'fucked' in a prayer, figuring that was a bit unprofessional of him, but after all, he was new at it.

There was only one way to go at this point. One beginning.

He only wished there weren't a million possible endings.

"You can do this," Arthur mumbled to himself.

He really hoped he was right.


	15. Track Fifteen: All You Need is Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Track Fifteen: All You Need is Love

Eames managed to get a couple of hours of sleep on the plane, and he was sure Saito was grateful for it as much as he was. Once they landed, he was immediately bombarded by reporters at the airport. Somehow they'd found out what gate they'd be coming in though even though Saito had gone to a great effort to keep it secret. Eames told them all to fuck off in order to be sure it was a sound bite they couldn't really use on their shows, but they probably would use it anyway. He didn't understand why they just had to know so much about who he was fucking around with. Shouldn't the idea that he liked guys have been enough? Why did they have to know who? Why did they have to accuse him of a handful of heinous ideas just because of the things he felt they shouldn't know? He actually had one of the reporters ask him if he had a _drug problem_. What the fuck did _that_ have to do with being gay? Did they think cocaine or heroin made him gay?

It pissed him off.

How dare they accuse him of such a thing? How could they have possibly even thought he would _answer_ that question?

The day was starting off absolutely horrible, and as they pulled up on the amphitheater, he realized that it was probably only going to get worse.

As expected, there were protestors with signs. The cops were already in the middle of stopping them from burning a pile of their CDs, to which Yusuf replied, "Well, at least they bought them. Record sales must be up."

"Always looking on the bright side, aren't you, Yusuf?" Eames said with a sigh. "It's a nice sentiment, but for the record, you're really not helping."

"You knew they would be here," Yusuf said. "Don't worry about it. The police won't let those wankers inside with those violent outbursts."

"Yeah, so only the quiet ones will get in to blow us all up," Nash added with a smirk.

"I appreciate that so much," Eames said sarcastically.

"You're welcome," Nash replied snottily. Eames refrained from smacking him on the back of his head. "They won't let anyone bring any guns or anything in here," Nash continued, this time more seriously. "Saito said he's got the absolute best security being run on this place for us."

"Sometimes words can hurt more than bullets," Yusuf supplied.

"Have you ever been shot with a bullet?" Nash asked.

"No," Yusuf said simply.

"Then you can't accurately say that," Nash said.

"True," Yusuf agreed lightly. "I do hope to not find out if I'm right or wrong anytime soon."

"As do we all," Eames said, sinking in his seat even though the windows of the car were tinted enough that no one could see who was inside. He wondered how Arthur was doing at that moment, if the protestors were making him feel uncomfortable. He knew how Arthur liked to imagine up problems that didn't exist (at least not as of that moment did they exist). He hoped Arthur was okay.

It was hard to think of anything but Arthur, actually.

Eames lowered his head and shut his eyes and said one simple, silent prayer of _Please_. If God was listening, he was pretty sure he had an idea of what he meant by that. After all, he _was_ God, wasn't he? It was kind of his job to live up to expectations.

Eames wished he had lived up to expectations.

If he had just kept his mouth shut, the misunderstanding, the breakup, _none_ of this would have ever happened. There would have been no protestors there to interrupt all of the bands. There would have been no super swarms of reporters and paparazzi trying to dig up lewd and obscene things that Eames had never done just to prove that being gay was bad.

He was really beginning to question if the music was worth all of the bollocks.

He knew that if it was Arthur, he wouldn't have to question it at all.

Eames hummed at that thought but didn't let any of the others notice. He went back to flipping pages in his moleskin until he came across the page he'd been working on the other night, jotting down a few more notes.

He was thankful to see a few counter protests had sprung up across the grounds outside the amphitheater as well, at least, carrying signs with rainbow colored letters of support for Eames and for Radical Notion. Several of them had even worn rainbow articles of clothing, and several had worn purple in particular.

Maybe it was worth it after all. There were more supporters than there were protestors, and just from glancing at some of the signs, he realized that he had done a lot of good with two words. He was giving some of these kids, some of them younger than himself, younger than Arthur, hope that they had someone in the world to understand them when maybe their parents or teachers or peers or religious leaders didn't. He may have fucked up his relationship with Arthur, but he most definitely was making a difference in those people's lives. Sure, he did want to be selfish and have Arthur, but at least selflessness wasn't a total loss.

 _Oh, who am I kidding?_ He thought. _I don't even deserve him_.

He got out of the car when they were safely behind the gates and just sighed, leaning against the door for a moment. As he ducked his head down to dig a cigarette out of the pocket of his jeans, he glanced up to see a rather large group of students bustling by with instrument cases. Several of them were pointing and whispering towards Eames and Yusuf and Nash, but the teacher had clearly disciplined them to not break from the group or to be disruptive.

That was when he spotted Arthur.

Arthur was near the back of the students, walking in stride with a rather beautiful boy with bright blue eyes and chestnut colored hair, and they were both looking at Eames with unreadable expressions.

When Eames met Arthur's eyes, it was as if the whole world around them stopped and unexpectedly disappeared. All they could do was stare and stare at each other, just like when they first saw one another at the concert weeks ago. Eames didn't have his guitar on hand to distract his eyes from the sight or the strength to avoid the unbearable pain that welled up in his chest. He thought he had missed Arthur before, but having him so close and yet so far away from him magnified the pain more than he could possibly bear… and yet he just couldn't look away. He could never look away from those eyes.

Arthur licked his lips slowly out of nervous habit, taking hold of the pretty boy's bicep, and his eyebrows lowered on his forehead, desperation creeping across his features. There was so much he was trying to say when he couldn't speak the words, and the only reason Eames was having trouble understanding them was because he was too caught up in sending his own brainwaves at Arthur.

_I'm sorry._

_I'm so sorry, Arthur._

_It's not true, Arthur._

_I love you, Arthur._

_I've always loved you._

_I always will._

…and then the group had passed them, and Eames found himself staring dumbfounded at nothing.

His lip quivered as he came back to reality, and a tear slipped out of the corner of his eye so suddenly that he didn't even realize the need to swipe it away until it had nearly reached his jaw.

Yusuf clapped him on the back and mumbled, "You all right there, Eames?"

Eames swallowed thickly, sniffed, and said, "No, I really don't think so. I think I just died."

* * *

Arthur's whole body felt like it had gone numb. He held onto Robert's arm to keep his knees from collapsing on themselves, let Arthur whisper quietly to him to keep breathing, to not panic, to not cause a scene for his own good.

The first band started playing on the stage, but Arthur couldn't hear the music as he sat with the other orchestra members, all of them in their own respective seats with their names on them, sitting there at the corner of the stage where everyone could see them so Arthur couldn't sneak away. He didn't even care about the thousands of faces staring at all of them. He felt nothing but broken.

Eames had looked so _sad_. Arthur swore he had seen tears in his eyes. It had been that same desperate look he'd given Arthur when Arthur had broken up with him, the same eyes begging him not to leave him all alone… but Arthur didn't know if it was loneliness that fueled that look or it if was regret for playing games with his emotions. Arthur just wasn't good at reading people's emotions. He barely knew how to take on his own…

All he knew was that an ache bloomed in his chest so rapidly that he was unable to breathe for a long minute. He looked to Robert, too far away at the chair next to the piano bench, looked to the audience where Ariadne also sat so far from him, squeezed in next to his unimpressed looking parents, looked down to his program on his music stand next to his book of sheet music, saw Eames's name underneath the list of Radical Notion's band members, and watched as the letters blurred together. Tears sprang to the edges of his eyes, and he couldn't even _cry_. He couldn't let anyone see because he couldn't explain that his heart was breaking all over again and he couldn't handle it.

"Hey, Arthur," a voice whispered from behind him, but he didn't dare turn around and show his red-rimmed eyes to anyone. "Arthur," the voice said again, and this time he recognized it as Ally's. "Hey, man, you okay? You're kind of stiff shouldered."

"Fine," Arthur whispered back curtly, grateful that the whisper didn't allow his voice to treacherously break.

"Just relax, Artie. We're going to be awesome. You're going to be awesome."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, letting in a sharp intake of breath through his nose, fists clenching on his knees. If only she knew it wasn't the concert he was necessarily getting worked up over. In fact, all of his fears and worries about the concert were now the last things on his mind. All he could think about was how much he missed Eames and about how lonely he was. All he could see was Eames's eyes, staring into his like there were no other people on earth.

Arthur tugged at the collar of his shirt and opened his eyes again to watch the first band finish their set. He had been zoned out for far too long, he thought, as the next band stepped on stage.

…and yet, even after being sure of that, he couldn't help but keep doing it. He was only vaguely aware of the music echoing around him, every word sounding like a memory of him and Eames, or of a an idea of how things could have been if he hadn't screwed everything up, everything Eames drifting around and hanging off of him like the smoke of one of his cigarettes. The air was so thick with him that Arthur was sure he was suffocating on it, and he couldn't understand why the fact that he was close by was enough to do this to him. He thought maybe it was opportunity slipping through his fingers like sand in the hourglass, that he'd been thrown up on the altar and he could either let Eames walk away from his life or expose…

The second band left.

Then, the third band.

The fourth.

Then… Radical Notion came out.

Eames was wearing his leather pants again, but this time he was wearing a shirt, and when he came onto the stage, he was met with mixed reviews from the crowd. There was an overwhelming amount of loud, raucous cheering, but there was quite a few boos and hisses and 'go home fag' chants as well. Arthur's parents just sat in their seats with their arms crossed, looking as smug and disappointed as he surely had been before the concert from weeks ago had started.

He was _really_ starting to hate who he used to be.

Arthur watched Eames intensely, eyes as fiery as they had been that night, as unable to pull away from him as before. He played as expertly as always, unfazed by the crowd's reactions. From the distant look on his face, he clearly had a lot on his mind.

The first song ended, and Eames took the mic from Cobb before he could thank them for the applause, and said, "You know, if you don't like me, you can leave. You've already paid for your ticket, thus donating to the cause, so I really don't give a fuck if you're here or not. I'd play for an empty stadium if I was scheduled to play there."

This was met by thunderous applause from his supporters, and Arthur could see them waving signs out of his peripheral vision.

"In the end, this is about the music, and music is about love and freedom and not giving a damn about what other people think about them, all right?"

"Was that necessary?" Cobb mumbled, but his voice did pick up on the mic as Eames passed it back to him.

"Not really," Eames said with a beatific smile. "You know how I can't resist riling people up though. It's in my wild rock star nature."

He went back to his side of the stage and went into the next song, giving one quick glance in Arthur's direction.

A couple of people did leave, but one thing was for sure—no one booed after their next song. Eames had effortlessly set them straight. Arthur for one was not surprised. He had that effect on people.

Then, they played _No Fault of Mine_ , and Arthur felt his heart twist in his chest.

They had gone the way Arthur had suggested, toning it down, letting raw emotion flood out from their instruments. Yusuf was astoundingly good on the keyboard, making Arthur wonder why he had _ever_ switched to drums, and Nash was actually good at the six-string as well.

It was _beautiful_. Arthur could already see tears on Ariadne's face, and while there weren't any on his parents still uninterested faces, the crowd had fallen into silent awe over the piece. Cobb's voice tore through all of them, full of pain, ruling them with his words, and the band short-circuited everyone really listening with the amount of anguish they poured into every note, and suddenly Arthur's eyes were welling up with tears like they had when Eames had played the rough and tumble version in his apartment.

It was _his_ song. He could feel Eames glancing at him throughout the entirety of it, as if to say so…

…and then an extra verse that Arthur had not heard on the piece came spilling out of Cobb's mouth, and Arthur was sure, _positive_ that this was for him. The entire band had dropped out, leaving Eames with his acoustic and Cobb with his vocals, singing, " _and when I said I love you, I probably let you down; I know I don't deserve you, but I hope I'll come around; your smile is quite disarming, and I'm stuck in the firing line, my heart's left bleeding and yet I'm still proceeding, but it's no fault of mine._ "

Eames was definitely looking in Arthur's direction now, even if it was only out of the corners.

He was sending him a message, and Arthur heard it loud and clear as he joined Cobb on vocals, sharing the microphone.

"… _and when I said I love you, you know I never lied; I may be quite the fuck-up, but at least you know I tried; It's all your fault I've fallen, but know that I don't mind; if I'm lonely I know it's only a stupid fault of mine._ "

It hadn't been serious.

The boyfriend thing.

It had been a joke.

Eames hadn't known it was Arthur, and someone else had answered and claimed it, but it hadn't been true. Arthur didn't know who it had been or why they had done it, but it wasn't true.

It wasn't _true_.

Eames wasn't with anyone else. He knew it from the look on his face, from the words on his lips.

They sang the final chorus and ended the song to an eruption of cheers and applause, and Arthur couldn't understand how anyone could hate Eames or anything he stood for after a performance like that (though admittedly, he was a little biased).

They played another song, this one an old standard of theirs that got the whole crowd moving, and then they left the stage. Afterwards, the school's choir sang three or four songs.

Mal spoke fondly about the previous performances and then gushed about their orchestra while they tuned up. Arthur was so stunned at his revelation that it took him a few minutes to recover, but thankfully, he'd tuned his violin to perfection before leaving the apartment. He could still see Eames off to the side of the stage, talking heatedly with Cobb, probably about his little speech… but Eames hadn't cheated on him the whole time, Eames hadn't immediately gone out to find someone else, none of that, and that was all Arthur cared about. All of his sadness and insecurity and loneliness just melted off of him. He wasn't worried about the fact that his parents were in the audience or that Jacobson was staring him down as they started their first piece, or that there were protestors, or _anything_. Eames hadn't lied.

 _Eames hadn't lied_.

They finished their first song to a much more polite version of applause than the hooting and hollering that the rock bands received. They went into Frank Liszt _Hungarian Rhapsody No.2_ , and Arthur kept trying to make eye contact with Eames for the entire nine to ten minutes of it, trying to relay to him that he'd been forgiven, that he still loved him, that he understood, but Eames was distracted by Saito and the other band members, by other bands who were whispering words of support (if Eames's polite smile was any indication) in his direction.

As they played Tchaikovsky's _Waltz of the Flowers_ , he continued to try and get his attention but was startled out of leaning too far to the left when he nearly slammed into the musician sitting next to him and getting an audible bark out of Jacobson. He shrank a little, looking nervously at Mal off to the other side of the piano, and she just shrugged.

From that point on, he actually focused on his playing, since his parents were watching and all, and though he'd played all of these songs long enough he could do them in his sleep (and quite possibly had, considering he woke up on the floor among the his music and violin), he concentrated as they dove into the final climax of the song.

The song came to an end, and since it was track more people were familiar with, the response was a bit more excitable than the last one.

They played two more songs, and then the soloists started their performances, each with a little speech from Mal beforehand.

Arthur hadn't known she would be speaking before he played, and it made him momentarily a little nervous. What on earth was she going to say about him? Sure, Mal probably had nothing but good things to say about him, but… well… that was the problem.

He didn't want to let her down.

…but then he told himself that this performance was something he had to do on his own, and he couldn't let anything or anyone else get in his way, and…

It was his turn.

"This next student," Mal said, "is the first ever at the Cobol School to be in first chair since freshman year. He's a phenomenally talented young man, considered a prodigy at the violin from his teachers over the course of his life, who has also managed to maintain a 4.0 grade point average on top of his performance duties. On top of all of that, _all of that_ …" she turned and smiled at him, and Arthur felt warm all over, "he's a genuinely good person."

Arthur nodded a small thanks and tried not to get so touched by it that he cried. His emotions were already on edge as it was. He was definitely starting to get a handle on it at least, so there was that.

"Without further ado, playing Chopin's _Nocturne_ , Arthur Welch."

The crowd applauded as he stepped up to the music stand, but he didn't start to play. _Well, it's now or never_ , he thought, and as he realized he didn't have a plan, somehow the idea calmed him.

"Uh, hi," he said, clearing his throat. "Uh… yeah, your program and Mal said I was going to play _Nocturne_ , but well—" he took a moment to look out at the expectant faces of the crowd, of Ariadne's nervous stare, and a quick glance to the side of the stage showed Eames, staring as well. "Well, fuck that," he said simply, and he could hear the audible gasp from some of the students, Jacobson, and probably his parents too. He didn't miss Robert's smirk.

"Yeah, uh, I think I'm going to shake things up a little, and I'm flying by the seat of my pants here, and it could be a _disaster_ in every sense of the word, but… well… I've got to play from my heart or no one's going to listen to me, and my heart's telling me to play this. It ah… doesn't have a title yet. My friend helped me write it the other night." He nodded to Fischer, approached and handed him the sheet music. "I've cut it down and fixed it," he whispered to him.

"Are you entirely sure about this?" Robert asked, eyes wide.

"Nope," Arthur replied and smiled. "Just follow my lead."

He walked back to the microphone, made a quick glance at Mal who was watching a bit unsurely at him, and then he mumbled, "I ah… hope you like it, and um… if you don't, I really don't care…" and started to play.

Robert expertly fell into time with Arthur, just as he'd expected, and Arthur had to admit that the piece was quite good if he did say so himself. It helped that his playing was absolutely spot on, and on the parts that he had never been quite sure about, he improvised absolutely beautifully. The piece started out wild and untamed like his and Eames's torrid sexual affair, slowly becoming sweeter as love found its way inside, sadder when it fell apart, angry when betrayal boiled upwards followed by a hateful despair. Arthur played out every emotion Eames had made him feel, and he'd never felt so sure of a piece in his entire life. He had his eyes closed as he remembered every second of it, every touch, every word, so he didn't pay any mind to the faces all staring at him. He had said that he didn't care if they liked it or not, and he had honestly meant it.

Eames had played him a song.

Arthur was just returning the favor.

…but he still wasn't sure if Eames understood, and that was when he decided to be as obvious as possible without actually shouting it from the proverbial rooftops.

As the song came to an end, he flew his bow onto the final wailing note, and Robert finished his piano part, only for Arthur to continue on the note until everyone was under the impression that he must have frozen up, and then he jumped into a familiar chord, barely hitting his bow across the strings before stepping up to the microphone and singing, " _There's a fire starting in my heart, reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark…_ "

Now he was sure all eyes were upon him, and he was probably going to regret the fact that he was shaming his parents by playing a contemporary piece, but it was too late to go back on it now, and really he'd come to realize just how much he hated his parents anyway.

He only hoped Eames would get the message.

" _Finally I can see you crystal clear, go ahead and sell me out and I'll lay your ship bare._ "

…and suddenly, several of the other students in the orchestra started playing behind him, as if he had told all of them to follow his lead rather than just Robert. Completely unprovoked, they were helping him, and it sounded _good_.

He smirked as he continued to sing, " _See how I leave with every piece of you, don't underestimate the things that I will do; There's a fire starting in my heart, reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark…_ "

The orchestra fell into soft wails while Robert banged out chords on the piano as he fell into the bridge, singing, " _The scars of your love remind me of us, they keep me thinking that we almost had it all…_ "

…and he could swear he heard somebody plugging into an amp.

" _The scars of your love, they leave me breathless, I can't help feeling…_ "

A full on rock band filtered into Arthur's ears, and a voice sang along with him from the microphone next to his, over the sounds of exuberant cheers, " _We could have had it all…_ "

It was Eames.

Eames and Radical Notion had come out and started to play with Arthur, with the rest of the orchestra.

Apparently, he'd gotten the message.

" _Rolling in the deep… You had my heart inside of your hand, and you played it to the beat_."

Arthur turned, lowering his violin for the moment, eyeing Eames down as he sang, " _Baby, I have no story to be told, but I've heard one on you and I'm gonna make your head burn_."

Eames looked right back at him, a corner of his mouth turned up as he responded by singing, " _Think of me in the depths of your despair, and make a home down there 'cause mine sure won't be shared_."

The choir piped up from behind all of them, " _You're gonna wish you—_ "

" _The scars of your love—_ "

"— _never had met me—_ "

" _—remind me of us—"_

_"Tears are gonna fall—"_

_"They keep me thinking that we almost had it all…"_

_"Rolling in the deep…"_

Arthur couldn't believe how willing the other students were to jump into his defiance, but admittedly it was far too _cool_ to currently worry about. He was having _fun_ which was more than he could really say about any of his previous performances in his life, and he no longer cared if the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, if Jacobson, if his parents thought he was a failure.

…because it wasn't about fame or impressing people or money. It was about _music_ , and he'd be perfectly satisfied living on the streets as long as he could play the violin. He understood what Eames had been talking about before, about how the schooling didn't matter nearly as much as the passion. It was like he was seeing the world through new eyes, and his only regret was that he hadn't realized it sooner.

They sang the chorus again, and then everyone, seemingly on the same wavelength, dropped out so that it was just Yusuf banging an under-beat over their voices as they sang at each other, mouths cracking into face-hurting smiles, " _Throw your soul through every open door; Count your blessings to find what you look for; Turn my sorrow into treasured gold, and pay me back in kind and reap just what you sow…_ "

Arthur and Eames just gasped while the chorus started singing, " _You're gonna wish you—never had met me—_ "

" _We could have had it all…_ " Arthur crooned, closing distance between them so they were standing nearly nose to nose.

" _Tears are gonna fall_ ," the choir sang.

" _We could have had it all_ ," Eames wailed back.

" _Rolling in the deep_ … _You're gonna wish you—never had met me…_ " the choir belted out unabashedly in harmonies they must have memorized on their own time.

" _It all, it all, it all_ …" the two of them sang, and then Arthur threw himself back into a violin solo even more ridiculous than the one he'd played the first time, and he didn't care, he didn't _care_ , because he'd never been so goddamned happy in his entire _life_.

The crowd was going so wild that for a moment Arthur didn't even know if anyone could hear his violin, but then he realized they were actually cheering _for_ him. For _him_.

No wonder Eames and Radical Notion liked playing for big crowds. The adrenaline rush he got from their excitement was infectious. How had he ever feared performing in front of them? This was _awesome_!

" _We could have had it all, rolling in the deep; you had my heart inside of your hand, and you played it to the beat!_ "

Arthur was pretty sure he could do this forever. The swell of music, of the togetherness of every single musician doing what they wanted and loved to do, the way Eames was looking at him like he'd never been more in love with anyone in his whole life, _everything_ was just _perfect_.

Screw the protestors. Screw the paparazzi. Screw his parents. Screw Jacobson. Screw anyone who refused to take a chance and try to understand. He didn't care about any of that. He didn't need any of that. All he needed was his music, his true friends, and Eames.

 _This_ was everything.

" _We could have had it all, rolling in the deep; you had my heart inside of your hand, but you played it, you played it, you played it, you played it to the beat_ …"

The song came to a close and Arthur threw his arms around Eames's neck, not caring about the sudden blinding flashes of cameras, not caring that Eames's guitar was digging uncomfortably into his groin.

"I'm so sorry," Eames whispered. "It was all a big game—we thought it was reporters—it was just Nash and Yusuf and me playing around, I swear on my mother's _life_ —"

"I know, I know, don't worry about it, I never should have let you go in the first place," Arthur stammered, breathing in his scent like he'd never smell it again. "Fuck, you're supposed to stop me from doing stupid things."

"You didn't stop me from doing stupid things," Eames countered, and the two of them broke apart, but only just barely.

Arthur looked out at the crowd, all of them screaming wildly, throwing their hands in the air, waving their signs.

"They love you," Eames whispered and then grabbed the microphone. "He's fucking ace, isn't he!" he said, and the crowd got impossibly louder. "Fuck, he completely schools me in everything I ever did in my early twenties, though I'm only twenty-six so… Also, how about all the rest of these brill motherfuckers?" He indicated the orchestra and the chorus, and the crowd erupted even more, shouting so loud that Arthur for a long moment couldn't even hear. "Damn… I think I should register for school there. Oh, and of course, my mates are always great, as well, clearly."

"Thank you," Arthur said humbly, delayed of course, as always. "Eames."

"Don't thank me, darling, for being yourself," Eames laughed and mussed up Arthur's hair. "Another round of applause for these right _ace_ students."

" _Eames_ ," Arthur said, still blinking back the white flashes of cameras from his eyelids.

Eames looked back at him as he went to set his guitar on the stand, smiling absolutely brilliantly, and Arthur's heart just melted. Arthur could see all of the apologies Eames was still making through his eyes, and Arthur for one couldn't think of anything he still needed to apologize for.

Three weeks.

Most people would have said it was stupid, that it would never last, that no one could be in love after that short amount of time. If someone had told Arthur the exact story they had lived out a month, two months, a year ago, he would have scoffed at them and passed them off as absolutely loony…

…but he knew what was real, and Eames was real. He felt stupid for ever doubting him in the first place.

Arthur jumped on Eames, wrapping his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck, and he kissed him on the mouth and didn't care who saw.

After all, the only opinions that mattered in their relationship were theirs.

When Arthur finally released his lips, chest heaving, Eames leaned over the microphone again and said, "Put _that_ shit in your papers. I love this man."

"I love you to the stars and back," Arthur replied, and he kissed him again with the sounds of cheering still ringing in his ears.


	16. Bonus Track: Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Arthur is a concert violinist at a prestigious arts college. His best (and only) friend Ariadne convinces him to come with her to a rock concert, aka his worst nightmare. He does seem to be quite taken with the charismatic lead guitarist though... or rather, the guitarist seems to be quite taken by him.

Bonus Track: Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

Eames was flipping through his scrapbook when his mobile phone started to ring. His hand paused over the clipping of the article from People magazine where Arthur had been interviewed over three years ago over their relationship. He'd so smoothly brushed over the fact that he and Eames had been a bit hasty in their relationship, coming up with a story about how they'd met in Paris a year before when Arthur's class had been on a field trip and how they'd been communicating ever since. It had been a rather successful lie since both Eames and Arthur really _had_ happened to be in Paris at the same time. Arthur was really too smart for his own good.

Currently, Eames was in New York, sprawled out in his hotel bed after a very successful concert with the band. He would have gone drinking with the Yusuf, but Ariadne happened to be in New York for work, so he figured he'd leave the two alone so that they could do lovey-dovey things. He and Nash were on better terms, sure, but they still didn't do too well when it was just the two of them, and Cobb was off at an interview, talking about his and Mal's baby daughter, Phillipa who was entirely too cute for her own good.

It didn't matter. Eames was perfectly content with relaxing.

"Hello?" he answered the phone. "Arthur?"

"Hey there," Arthur replied from the other line, sounding a little out of breath. "How'd the concert go?"

"Standing O and three encores," Eames replied with a laugh. "How's Chicago?"

"Same old, same old," Arthur said. "Robert, Ally, and the others and I just got back from a gig too."

Arthur played violin in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, just like he'd always wanted (they'd been knocking on his door and calling him up since the S.O.S. concert all those years ago), and during his free time he and some of his friends from college that were also living in Chicago (plus one or two he'd met there) had a band where they performed contemporary songs using classical instruments. They were actually making quite a splash in the music scene there, their first EP selling out on their website after only an afternoon.

"I imagine it went well?" Eames asked.

"Extremely. I missed you though when we were playing _No Fault of Mine_."

"I'm assuming that's why you've called me. Usually you wait for me to call you or show up at home."

Eames and Arthur had several houses all over the world, but Arthur generally stayed at the one in Chicago. It was modest, not at all flashy with it being only one floor and a tall electrified gate to keep out intruders. Arthur had explained to Eames that they didn't need anything too ridiculous (though Arthur hadn't seen the mansion in the English countryside yet—he didn't even _know_ about it yet, actually but he would come Christmastime. Arthur had a falling out with his parents, so he spent the holidays with Eames's folks).

"I just don't want to call you when you're busy," Arthur replied with a sigh. "When will you be back anyways?"

"The tour finishes up in just two weeks. I'll be back in Chicago then, darling."

"What are you going to do when you get back here to me?" Arthur asked, and Eames could hear the breathless smile on Arthur's face.

…and then he realized, "Arthur, are you touching yourself right now?"

Arthur grunted in response, "Well, I have to do _something_ , right?" and started to moan.

"But… you _never_ touch yourself," Eames said, stunned.

"I've actually gotten pretty— _ah_ —pretty good at it with all this separation we have to do. I just decided not to let you know until now."

"Why, pet?" Eames asked, grinning filthily. "Afraid I'd be jealous of your pretty little hand?"

"Didn't want you to think I was so pathetic," Arthur gasped, and Eames could imagine him arching off of the mattress, sweat soaking the navy sheets beneath him.

"Pathetic? You've got to be fucking kidding me, Arthur! After three years, you're still that insecure about what I think of you?"

" _Fuck_ —Eames, don't turn it into an argument," Arthur countered, but Eames had a feeling he hadn't slowed down, and that his brain was quickly scrambling his vocabulary words.

"Arthur, you don't think I do it? Fuck, you'd probably have an easier time figuring out what days I _don't_ , rather than the days I do. I've told you before that it's all right, and you're not pathetic at all for doing it. I'd much rather you be fucking your hand rather than some other bloke, you know."

"Okay, _clearly_ you are not touching yourself like I am because you're trying to have a goddamned _conversation_ ," Arthur complained, and maybe he still had a little vocabulary left in him after all. Leave it to Arthur and his laser focus to be able to accomplish such a feat.

"I always think of you," Eames replied huskily, deciding that he should help Arthur along and they could talk about his still occasional self-esteem issues later. While he was at it, he decided to knock one out for himself as well, tugging down his underwear and sweatpants with his free hand.

Arthur let out a small choked sound but tried to stifle it. Apparently, he thought he needed to not be swayed by Eames because Eames had gone and made him mad.

 _Oh, a challenge is it_? Eames thought, a wicked smile hurting his cheeks as he continued, "Every time, Arthur. I close my eyes and pretend that it's your hand touching me, and then I pretend that it's your pretty little arse, and then I imagine those _sounds_ you make and have to keep myself from coming just from those memories alone."

Arthur mewled.

Eames could get used to this game.

"Oh, yeah," Eames persisted, "you should _see_ the things I dream up about us when I'm alone, love. Sometimes I have to keep a grip on this overactive imagination of mind so I can stop myself from thinking about fucking you until you scream while I'm on stage. Oh, yes, you know I think about fucking you on stage in front of thousands of people because you are a bloody work of art when you're undone, aren't you—"

" _Oh_ , _God_ ," Arthur moaned, and the satisfaction that Eames was winning the game wasn't nearly as good as the sound of Arthur's voice, even if it did make it very hard (pun not intended but definitely implied) to concentrate.

"I would fuck you against the drums and against the amplifiers, and you'd pull the curtains and moan and beg for me while everyone watched including the band and the crew and all of those people, watching you like you're the most beautiful thing they've ever seen, so jealous that they can't be like us. Even the protestors would be salivating at the sight of you writhing underneath me, wrapped in a microphone cord and—"

"Oh… Oh, _fuck_ , Eames, I— _fuck_ , why the fuck aren't you here with me? _Ohh_ …"

"I'd fuck you until you came, and then I'd jerk you off until you were hard again, and I'd swallow you down straight to the hilt and suck you off until you came down my throat and were sobbing my name, and then everyone would fucking _applaud_ —"

Arthur shouted out and then groaned Eames's name, and Eames could just see him spilling all over himself, jaw slack, eyes rolling back in his head, and the image was so vivid in Eames's head that his hips stuttered, and he fell over the edge as well, left sprawled out and gasping on the hotel's mattress.

"You still there?" Eames asked after he caught his breath.

"Y—yeah," came Arthur's reply, sounding sated and no longer angry in the slightest. "Yeah, I'm still here. Sorry."

"Don't be," Eames chuckled before lapsing into a long moment of silence. After that moment passed, he quietly said, "I miss you."

"I miss you too," Arthur said, voice taking on the sleepy quality it usually did after he'd finished up. "Keep talking… Keep me awake… I need to get in the shower. I don't want to fall asleep like this."

"Do you ever think of what would have happened if we hadn't gotten back together?" Eames asked, and even he wasn't even sure what prompted it.

"Uh… well, for starters I wouldn't need a big electrified gate around the house to protect me from paparazzi, I probably would have been fired from the Chicago Symphony Orchestra for being too depressing to watch, and I possibly would have been living with my parents until I put a gun to my head."

"That's… wow, well I'm glad we did the phone sex thing before you told me that because if I had a boner right now it would have been gone instantly. That is the saddest bloody thing I've ever heard."

"Sorry—"

"No, no, it just… Well, it just makes me so grateful that we're together. I'd probably be just as miserable without you," Eames admitted, and he knew that was the truth. Three years into the relationship, he had absolutely no idea how he had ever lived without Arthur. Hell, he'd known that from nearly the beginning, but the feeling only solidified itself more and more over time.

"Oh, please," Arthur scoffed good-humoredly. "You don't think you could find another fine piece of ass like mine in your magnificent worldly travels?"

"Perhaps there are other arses," Eames admitted with a nod. "I haven't seen one yet, but the idea is perfectly possible. However, if you think I fell in love with you just because of your arse, either you've got far too much a superiority complex about it or I'm just terrible at expressing myself."

Arthur laughed a little, voice scratchy as he tried not to drift off. "What, you think you wouldn't have found someone else if you'd stayed dumped? You don't think you would have started to hate me after a while?"

Eames could sense that Arthur was pretending not to be serious, that they were just conversing, but he knew Arthur well enough to know that this bothered him, probably had been for quite some time. "Of course not," Eames assured him. "Darling… you're the only man I've ever loved, and you're the only one I ever will. I don't picture my life without you in it."

"You're just saying that—"

"I am _not_ ," Eames said, stern but gentle. "I mean it, Arthur. You know how much I love you, and you know that I love you for all of your perfections and all of your faults. I love you when you smile and even when you're angry with me. I love the little wrinkle you get between your eyebrows when you're upset and the way you stick your tongue out between your teeth when you do something silly, and I love how when you nod off in the middle of a movie after a long day your head automatically finds its way to my shoulder. I love that you drool and snore, and I love how anal retentive you are about your fingernails. I love how you organize your socks by color. I love how you always pick up on the second ring when I call, no matter what you're doing. I love _you_ , Arthur, and everything about you. Don't make me have to say it again because I didn't write all of that down and it's a lot of words for me."

There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line, and it made Eames agitated. "You didn't fall asleep while I was confessing my love, did you? I'll have you know that's just right—"

"Marry me."

"What?" Eames asked. He couldn't have heard that right.

"Seriously. Fuck it, why don't we just do it already? It's legal in the UK, isn't it?"

"Civil unions are, and ah—Argentina, Belgium… uh… Mexico City, some states, are you really fucking _serious_?"

"What, you don't want to?" Arthur asked, voice quiet, hesitant.

"No, no, of course I do. I just never expected that _you_ would propose to _me_ , and especially over the phone like this. I was just a little caught off guard is all. We should do this whole proposal thing again properly, preferably face to face and with the appropriate jewelry."

"I know… I just… I guess I just wanted you to know that I… I wouldn't refuse you if you asked me… that I… that I want to…"

Eames crawled off of the mattress, grabbing tissues to clean himself up with and said, "I do to. My family's going to absolutely love this, by the way. You know how much they like you."

"Eames?" Arthur said unsurely.

"Yes, darling?"

"I have to admit that I'm kind of horrendously drunk right now."

So, his slurred speech wasn't just from exhaustion.

Eames burst out laughing. "Oh, love!" he laughed. "Don't act so bloody ashamed! You're an adult. You can drink all you want. If I may remind you, the first time we had sex and the first time we both decided we were in love, you were drunk. Alcohol makes you terribly honest… Even if you did wake up tomorrow and not remember asking me to marry you, I'd know you meant it."

"I was worried that—"

"You worry too much," Eames said, pulling his underwear and sweatpants back up. "I actually kind of hope that you don't remember so that I can still surprise you at some point."

"I don't need any surprises," Arthur said genuinely. "I just need you. I don't need roses or candy or sappy love songs or any of that stupid stuff."

"I have written you plenty of songs."

"Yes, you have, and I love them, but even if you didn't I would still love you just as much."

Eames smiled even though Arthur couldn't see it. "Oh, good Lord, we really have become the 'you hang up first, no you hang up first' people, just like Nash kept saying we would. That's troubling."

Arthur laughed a little, but it died out quickly, leaving both of them in silence once again.

"Fuck…" Arthur said just as Eames was about to ask if he was still awake. "This whole 'you being gone' thing is the absolute worst… I hate it… I really _miss_ you. This place is really empty when I'm here by myself… Get back here soon, okay?"

"It won't be long now, I promise," Eames said quietly. "I hate this part too, but we promised each other and ourselves that we'd stick with it. These are our jobs, and the love of performing is worth it. We always get to see each other again."

"I know…"

Quiet.

"Eames…" Arthur said, and he knew that tone of voice after being with him so long. He knew what pleased Arthur and how he asked for it without even using words now.

Eames settled back down on the bed with a sigh and started to sing to him, " _I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things; we can do the tango just for two. I can serenade and gently play on your heartstrings, be a Valentino just for you_ …"

Arthur snorted at the choice of song. "What is it with you and Queen lately, anyways, Eames? Last month when you came to visit, you fucked me to _We Are the Champions_."

"Would you rather I sang _Killer Queen_ or _Fat-Bottomed Girls_?"

"I'd rather you be _here_ singing me anything. I'd even let you fuck me to _We Are the Champions_ again, and you know how ridiculous I thought that was."

"I like Queen because you told me they were one of your favorites. I'm no Freddie Mercury though, I suppose."

Arthur giggled, and oh yes, he was most definitely drunk. "You're my favorite," he said sleepily.

Eames shifted and sang, " _When I'm not with you, I think of you always… I miss you… When I'm not with you, think of me always, I love you…"_

The soft breathing he heard on the other end of the line signaled that Arthur had fallen asleep, but instead of hanging up, Eames just listened for a little while, enjoying the ability to imagine he was right next to him.

"Oh, Arthur, did you ever think it would be quite this grand?" he asked, knowing he wouldn't answer. "You really don't do anything halfway either, do you, darling?"

…and if he was a little late for the sound check at the concert the next day, none of his band mates called him on it. He still made it back from Chicago on time for the concert anyway, and it's not like he needed to practice the songs that he _wrote_ all that much these days.

They also didn't make any show of the fact that Arthur was with him, or the fact that he was wearing one of Eames's silver, black jeweled ring on his left ring finger.

_Everything's all right, just hold on tight; that's because I'm a good old-fashioned lover boy._


End file.
